THE   MELTING-POT 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  MELTING-POT 


DRAMA   IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 

ISRAEL   ZANGWILL 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CHILDREN  OF  THE  GHETTO,"  "  MERELY 
MARY  ANN,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION 


fforfc 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1916 

Aff  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  1914, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Published  September,  1909. 

New  and  revised  edition  November, 

1914;  July,  1915;  January,  September, 

1916. 


TO 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

IN  RESPECTFUL  RECOGNITION  OF 
HIS  STRENUOUS  STRUGGLE  AGAINST 
THE  FORCES  THAT  THREATEN  TO 
SHIPWRECK  THE  GREAT  REPUBLIC 
WHICH  CARRIES  MANKIND  AND 
ITS  FORTUNES,  THIS  PLAY  IS,  BY 
HIS  KIND  PERMISSION,  CORDIALLY 
DEDICATED 


2013892 


The  rights  of  performing  or  publishing 
this  play  in  any  country  or  language 
are  strictly  reserved  by  the  author. 


THE  CAST 

[As  first  produced  at  the  Columbia  Theatre,  Washington,  on  the 
fifth  of  October  1908] 

David  Quixano  WALKER  WHITESIDE 

Mendel  Quixano  HENRY  BERGMAN 

Baron  Revendal  JOHN  BLAIR 

Quincy  Davenport,  Jr.  GRANT  STEWART 

Herr  Pappelmeister  HENRY  VOGEL 

Vera  Revendal  CHRYSTAL  HERNE 

Baroness  Revendal  LEONORA  VON  OTTINGER 

Frau  Quixano  LOUISE  MULDENER 

Kathleen  O'Reilly  MOLLIE  REVEL 

Settlement  Servant  ANNIE  HARRIS 
Produced  by  HUGH  FORD 

[As  first  produced  by  the  Play  Actors  at  the  Court  Theatre,  London 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  January  1914] 

David  Quixano  HAROLD  CHAPIN 

Mendel  Quixano  HUGH  TABBERER 

Baron  Revendal  H.  LAWRENCE  LEYTON 

Quincy  Davenport,  Jr.  P.  PERCEVAL  CLARK 

Herr  Pappelmeister  CLIFTON  ALDERSON 

Vera  Revendal  PHYLLIS  RELPH 

Baroness  Revendal  GILLIAN  SCAIFE 

Frau  Quixano  INEZ  BENSUSAN 

Kathleen  O'Reilly  E.  NOLAN  O'CoNNO* 

Settlement  Servant  RUTH  PARROTT 
Produced  by  NORMAN  PAGE 


.    the    renowned    dra 
hap     delighted    aud 
ut  the  country,  vyill  ren> 
pquest   a    dramatic    rear*- 
1's      masterpiece    The 
'ooper    is    the    only    d 
has   the    exclusive 
'.srael   Zanpwlll   fo 
of    his    work.  %(* 


Act  I 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  living-room  of  the  small  home  of 
the    QUIXANOS    in     the    Richmond    or    non-Jewish 
borough  of  New  Tork,  about  five  o'clock  of  a  Feb- 
ruary afternoon.     At  centre  back  is  a  double  street- 
door  giving  on  a  columned  veranda  in  the  Colonial 
style.     Nailed  on   the  right-hand  door-post  gleams 
a  Mezuzah,  a  tiny  metal  case,  containing  a  Biblical 
passage.     On  the  right  of  the  door  is  a  small  hat- 
stand,    holding    MENDEL'S    overcoat,    umbrella,    etc. 
'There  are   two  windows,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
door,   and   three  exits,   one  down-stage  on   the  left 
leading  to  the  stairs  and  family  bedrooms,  and  two 
on    the   right,    the  upper    leading    to    KATHLEEN'S 
bedroom  and   the  lower  to  the  kitchen.      Over  the 
street  door  is  pinned  the  Stars-and-Stripes.     On  the 
left  wall,  in  the  upper  corner  of  which  is  a  music- 
stand,  are  bookshelves  of  large  mouldering  Hebrew 
books,  and  over  them  is  hung  a  Mizrach,  or  Hebrew 
picture,  to  show  it  is  the  East  Wall.     Other  pictures 
round  the  room  include  Wagner,  Columbus,  Lincoln, 
and  "  Jews  at   the  Wailing  place."     Down-stage, 
about  a   yard  from   the   left  wall,   stands   DAVID'S 
roll-desk,   open  and  displaying  a  medley  of  music, 
a  quill  pen,  etc.     On  the  wall  behind  the  desk  hangs 
a  book-rack  with  brightly  bound  English  books.     A 
grand  piano  stands  at  left  centre  back,   holding  a 
pile  of  music  and  one  huge  Hebrew  tome.     There  is 
a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  covered  with  a  red 
cloth  and  a  litter  of  objects,  music,  and  newspapers. 
The  fireplace,  in  which  a  fire  is  burning,  occupies 


the  centre  of  the  right  wall,  and  by  it  stands  an 
armchair  on  which  lies  another  heavy  mouldy 
Hebrew  tome.  The  mantel  holds  a  clock,  two  silver 
candlesticks,  etc.  A  chiffonier  stands  against  the 
back  wall  on  the  right.  There  are  a  few  cheap 
chairs.  The  whole  effect  is  a  curious  blend  of 
shabbiness,  Americanism,  Jewishness,  and  music, 
all  four  being  combined  in  the  Jigure  of  MENDEL 
QUIXANO,  who,  in  a  black  skull-cap,  a  seedy  velvet 
jacket,  and  red  carpet-slippers,  is  discovered  standing 
at  the  open  street-door.  He  is  an  elderly  music 
master  with  a  fine  Jewish  face,  pathetically  furrowed 
by  misfortunes,  and  a  short  grizzled  beard. 

MENDEL 

Good-bye,  Johnny  !  .  .  .  And  don't  forget  to  practise 
your  scales.     {Shutting  door,  shivers.] 
Ugh  !     It'll  snow  again,  I  guess. 

[He  yawns,  heaves  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  walks  toward 

the  table,  and  perceives  a  music-roll] 
The  chump  !     He's  forgotten  his  music  ! 

[He  picks  it  up  and  runs  toward  the  window  on  the 

left,  muttering  furiously] 
Brainless,  earless,  thumb-fingered  Gentile  ! 

[Throwing  open  the  window~\ 

Here,    Johnny !    You   can't    practise   your    scales   if 
you  leave  'em  here  ! 

[He  throws  out  the  music-roll  and  shivers  again  at 

the  cold  as  he  shuts  the  window] 

Ugh  !     And  I  must  go  out  to  that  miserable  dancing 
class  to  scrape  the  rent  together. 

[He  goes  to  the  fire  and  warms  his  hands] 
^ 


Ach  Gott !    What  a  life  !     What  a  life  ! 

[He  drops  dejectedly  into  the  armchair.  Finding 
himself  sitting  uncomfortably  on  the  big  book,  he 
half  rises  and  -pushes  it  to  the  side  of  the  seat. 
After  an  instant  an  irate  Irish  voice  is  heard  from 
behind  the  kitchen  door.~\ 

KATHLEEN  [Without} 

Divil  take  the  butther  !     I  wouldn't  put  up  with  ye, 

not  for  a  hundred  dollars  a  week. 

MENDEL  {Raising  himself  to  listen,  heaves  great  sigh\ 
Ach  !    Mother  and  Kathleen  again ! 

KATHLEEN  [Still  louder} 

Pots  and  pans  and  plates  and  knives !     Sure  'tis  enough 

to  make  a  saint  chrazy. 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Equally  loudly  from  kitchen} 
Wos  schreist  du  ?    Gott  in  Himmel,  dieses  Amerika  ! 

KATHLEEN  [Opening  door  of  kitchen  toward  the  end 
of  FRAU  QUIXANO'S  speech,  but  turning  back,  with  her 
hand  visible  on  the  door} 

What's  that  ye're  afther  jabberin'  about  America  ? 

If  ye  don't  like  God's  own  counthry,  sure  ye  can  go 

back  to  your  own  Jerusalem,  so  ye  can. 

MENDEL 

One's  very  servants  are  anti-Semites. 

KATHLEEN  [Bangs  her  door  as  she  enters  excitedly, 
carrying  a  folded  white  table-cloth.  She  is  a  young 
and  pretty  Irish  maid-of-all-work} 

3 


Bad  luck  to  me,  if  iver  I  take  sarvice  again  with  ha/then 

Jews. 

[She  perceives  MENDEL  huddled  up  in  the  armchair, 
gives  a  little  scream,  and  drops  the  cloth.] 

Och,  I  thought  ye  was  out ! 

MENDEL  [Rising] 

And  so  you  dared  to  be  rude  to  my  mother. 

KATHLEEN  [dngrily,  as  she  picks  up  the  cloth] 
She  said  I  put  mate  on  a  butther-plate. 

MENDEL 

Well,  you  know  that's  against  her  religion. 

KATHLEEN 

But  I  didn't  do  nothing  of  the  soort.     I  ounly  put 

butther  on  a  mate-plate. 

MENDEL 

That's  just  as  bad.    What  the  Bible  forbids 


KATHLEEN  [Lays  the  cloth  on  a  chair  and,  vigorously 

clears  off  the  litter  of  things  on  the  table] 
Sure,    the   Pope   himself   couldn't   remimber    it    all. 
Why  don't  ye  have  a  sinsible  religion  ? 

MENDEL 

You  are  impertinent.     Attend  to  your  work. 

[He  seats  himself  at  the  piano] 
4 


KATHLEEN 

And  isn't  it  laying  the  Sabbath  cloth  I  am  ? 

[She  bangs  down  articles  from  the  table  into  their 

right  places.] 

MENDEL 

Don't  answer  me  back. 
[He  begins  to  play  softly.] 

KATHLEEN 

Faith,  I  must  answer  somebody  back — and  sorra  a  word  of 
English  she  understands.  I  might  as  well  talk  to  a  tree. 

MENDEL 

You  are  not  paid  to  talk,  but  to  work. 
[Playing  on  softly.] 

KATHLEEN 

And  who  can  work  wid  an  ould  woman  nagglin'  and 
grizzlin'  and  faultin'  me  ? 

[She  removes  the  red  table-cloth.] 

Mate-plates,  butther-plates,  kosher,  trepba,  sure  I've 
smashed  up  folks'  crockery  and  they  makin'  less  fuss 
ouver  it. 

MENDEL  [Stops  playing] 

Breaking  crockery  is  one  thing,  and  breaking  a  religion 
another.  Didn't  you  tell  me  when  I  engaged  you 
that  you  had  lived  in  other  Jewish  families  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Angrily] 

And  is  it  a  liar  ye'd  make  me  out  now  ?     I've  lived 

5 


wid  clothiers  and  pawnbrokers  and  Vaudeville  actors, 
but  I  niver  shtruck  a  house  where  mate  and  butther 
couldn't  be  as  paceable  on  the  same  plate  as  eggs 
and  bacon — the  most  was  that  some  wouldn't  ate  the 
bacon  onless  'twas  killed  kosher. 

MENDEL  [Tickled} 
Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 

KATHLEEN  [Furious,  pauses  with  the  white  table- 
cloth half  on] 

And  who's  ye  laughin'  at  ?     I  give  ye  a  week's  notice. 
I  won't  be  the  joke  of  Jews,  no,  begorra,  that  I  won't. 
[She  pulls  the  cloth  on  viciously.] 

MENDEL  [Sobered,  rising  from  the  piano] 
Don't  talk  nonsense,   Kathleen.     Nobody  is   making 
a  joke  of  you.     Have  a  little  patience — you'll  soon 
learn  our  ways. 

KATHLEEN  [More  mildly] 

Whose  ways,  yours  or  the  ould  lady's  or  Mr.  David's  ? 
To-night  being  yer  Sabbath,  you'll  be  blowing  out 
yer  bedroom  candle,  though  ye  won't  light  it  ;  Mr. 
David'll  light  his  and  blow  it  out  too ;  and  the  mis- 
thress  won't  even  touch  the  candleshtick.  There's 
three  religions  in  this  house,  not  wan. 

MENDEL  [Coughs  uneasily.] 

Hem  !     Well,    you   learn    the    mistress's    ways — that 

will  be  enough. 

6 


KATHLEEN  [Going  to  mantelpiece] 

But  what  way  can  I  understand  her  jabberin'  and 

jibberin'  ? — I'm  not  a  monkey  ! 

[She  takes  up  a  silver  candlestick.'] 
Why  doesn't  she  talk  English  like  a  Christian  ? 

MENDEL  [Irritated] 

If  you  are  going  on  like  that,  perhaps  you  had  better 

not  remain  here. 

KATHLEEN  [Blazing  up,  forgetting  to  take  the  second 

candlestick] 

And  who's  axin'  ye  to  remain  here  ?     Faith,  I'll  quit 
off  this  blissid  minit  ! 

MENDEL  [Taken  aback] 
No,  you  can't  do  that. 

KATHLEEN 

And  why  can't  I  ?     Ye  can  keep  yer  dirthy  wages. 
[She  dumps  down   the  candlestick   violently  on   the 
table,  and  exit  hysterically  into  her  bedroom] 

MENDEL  [Sighing  heavily] 

She  might  have  put  on  the  other  candlestick. 

[He  goes  to  mantel  and  takes  it.     A  rat-tat-tat  at 

street-door] 
Who  can  that  be  ? 

[Running   to   KATHLEEN'S   door,   holding   candlestick 

forgetfully  low] 
Kathleen  !     There's  a  visitor  ! 
7 


KATHLEEN  {Angrily  from  within] 
I'm  not  here  ! 

MENDEL 

So  long  as  you're  in  this  house,  you  must  do  your 
work. 

[KATHLEEN'S  head  emerges  sulkily.] 

KATHLEEN 

I  tould  ye  I  was  lavin'  at  wanst.     Let  you  open  the 

door  yerself. 

MENDEL 

I'm  not  dressed  to  receive  visitors — it  may  be  a  new 

pupil. 

[He  goes  toward  staircase.,  automatically  carrying 
off  the  candlestick  which  KATHLEEN  has  not  caught 
sight  of.  Exit  on  the  left.] 

KATHLEEN  [Moving  toward  the  street-door] 

The  divil  fly  away  wid  me  if  ivir  from  this  'our  I  set 

foot  again  among  haythen  furriners 

[She  throws  open  the  door  angrily  and  then  the 
outer  door.  VERA  REVENDAL,  a  beautiful  girl  in 
furs  and  muff,  with  a  touch  of  the  exotic  in  her 
appearance,  steps  into  the  little  vestibule] 

VERA 

Is  Mr.  Quixano  at  home  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Sulkily] 
Which  Mr.  Quixano  ? 


VERA  [Surprised] 

Are  there  two  Mr.  Quixanos  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Tartly] 
Didn't  I  say  there  was  ? 

VERA 

Then  I  want  the  one  who  plays. 

KATHLEEN 

There  isn't  a  one  who  plays. 

VERA 

Oh,  surely  ! 

KATHLEEN 

Ye're  wrong  entirely.     They  both  plays. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Oh,  dear  !     And  I  suppose  they  both  play  the  violin. 

KATHLEEN 

Ye're  wrong  again.     One  plays  the  piano — ounly  the 
young  ginthleman  plays  the  fiddle — Mr.  David  ! 

VERA  [Eagerly] 

Ah,  Mr.  David — that's  the  one  I  want  to  see. 

KATHLEEN 
He's  out. 

[She  abruptly  shuts  the  door.] 
9 


VERA  [Stopping  its  closing] 
Don't  shut  the  door  ! 

KATHLEEN  [Snappily] 

More  chanst  of  seeing  him  out  there  than  in  here  ! 

VERA 

But  I  want  to  leave  a  message. 

KATHLEEN 

Then  why  don't  ye  come  inside  ?  It's  freezin'  me 
to  the  bone. 

[She  sneezes.] 
Atchoo  ! 

VERA 

I'm  sorry. 

[She  comes  in  and  closes  the  door."] 

Will  you  please  say  Miss  Revendal  called  from  the 
Settlement,  and  we  are  anxiously  awaiting  his  answer 
to  the  letter  asking  him  to  play  for  us  on 

KATHLEEN 

What  way  will  I  be  tellin'  him  all  that  ?     I'm  not 

here. 

VERA 

Eh? 

KATHLEEN 

I'm  lavin' — just  as  soon  as  I've  me  thrunk  packed. 

10 


VERA 

Then  I  must  write  the  message — can  I  write  at  this 
desk  ? 

KATHLEEN 

If  the  ould  woman  don't  come  in  and  shpy  you. 

VERA 

What  old  woman  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Ould  Mr.  Quixano's  mother — she  wears  a  black  wig, 

she's  that  houly. 

VERA  [Bewildered] 

What  ?  .  .  .  But  why  should  she  mind  my  writing  ? 

KATHLEEN 
Look  at  the  clock. 

[VERA  looks  at  the  dock,  more  puzzled  than  ever.] 
If  ye're  not  quick,  it'll  be  Shabbos. 

VERA 

Be  what  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Holds  up  hands  of  horror] 

Ye  don't  know  what  Shabbos  is  !     A  Jewess  not  know 

her  own  Sunday  ! 

VERA  [Outraged] 

I,  a  Jewess  !     How  dare  you  ? 


KATHLEEN  [Flustered] 

Axin'  your  pardon,  miss,  but  ye  looked  a  bit  furrin 

and  I 

VERA  [Frozen] 
I  am  a  Russian. 

[Slowly  and  dazedly} 
Do  I  understand  that  Mr.  Quixano  is  a  Jew  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Two  Jews,  miss.    Both  of  'em. 

VERA 

Oh,  but  it  is  impossible. 

[Dazedly  to  herself] 
He  had  such  charming  manners. 

[Aloud  again] 

You  seem  to  think  everybody  Jewish.  Are  you  sure  Mr. 
Quixano  is  not  Spanish  ? — the  name  sounds  Spanish. 

KATHLEEN 

Shpanish  ! 

[She  picks  up  the  old  Hebrew  book  on  the  armchair.] 
Look  at  the  ould  lady's  book.     Is  that  Shpanish  ? 

[She  points  to  the  Mizrach] 

And  that  houly  picture  the  ould  lady  says  her  pater- 
noster to  !  Is  that  Shpanish  ?  And  that  houly  table- 
cloth with  the  houly  silver  candle 

[Cry  of  sudden  astonishment] 
Why,  I've  ounly  put 

[She  looks  toward  mantel  and  utters  a  great  cry  of 

alarm  as  she  drops  the  Hebrew  book  on  the  floor] 

12 


Why,    where's   the   other   candleshtick !     Mother   in 
hivin,  they'll  say  I  shtole  the  candleshtick  ! 

[Perceiving   that   VERA   is   dazedly   moving   toward 

door] 
Beggin'  your  pardon,  miss 

[She  is  about  to  move  a  chair  toward  the  desk.] 

VERA 

Thank  you,  I've  changed  my  mind. 

KATHLEEN 

That's  more  than  I'll  do. 

VERA  [Hand  on  door] 
Don't  say  I  called  at  all. 

KATHLEEN 

Plaze  yerself .     What  name  did  ye  say  ? 

[MENDEL  enters  hastily  from  his  bedroom,  completely 
transmogrified,  minus  the  skull-cap,  with  a  Prince 
Albert  coat,  and  boots  instead  of  slippers,  so  that  his 
appearance  is  gentlemanly.  KATHLEEN  begins  to 
search  quietly  and  unostentatiously  in  the  table- 
drawers,  the  chiffonier,  etc.,  etc.,  for  the  candlestick. 

MENDEL 

I  am  sorry  if  I  have  kept  you  waiting 

[He  rubs  his  hands  importantly] 

You  see  I  have  so  many  pupils  already.     Won't  you 
sit  down  ? 

[He  indicates  a  chair] 
13 


VERA  [Flushing,  embarrassed,  releasing  her  hold  of  tht 

door  handle] 

Thank  you — I — I — I   didn't   come  about   pianoforte 
lessons. 

MENDEL  [Sighing  in  disappointment] 
Ach! 

VERA 

In  fact  I — er — it  wasn't  you  I  wanted  at  all — I  was 

just  going. 

MENDEL  [Politely] 

Perhaps  I  can  direct  you  to  the  house  you  are  looking 

for. 

VERA 

Thank  you,  I  won't  trouble  you. 
[She  turns  toward  the  door  again.] 

MENDEL 

Allow  me  ! 

[He  opens  the  door  for  her.] 

VERA  [Hesitating,  struck  by  his  manners,  struggling 

with  her  anti-Jewish  prejudice] 
It — it — was  your  son  I  wanted. 

MENDEL  [His  face  lighting  up] 

You  mean  my  nephew,  David.     Yes,  he  gives  violin 

lessons. 

[He  closes  the  door.] 


VERA 

Oh,  is  he  your  nephew  ? 

MENDEL 

I  am  sorry  he  is  out — he,  too,  has  so  many  pupils, 
though  at  the  moment  he  is  only  at  the  Crippled 
Children's  Home — playing  to  them. 

VERA 

How  lovely  of  him  ! 

[Touched  and  deciding  to  conquer  her  prejudice] 
But  that's  just  what  /  came  about — I  mean  we'd  like 
him  to  play  again  at  our  Settlement.     Please  ask  him 
why  he  hasn't  answered  Miss  Andrews's  letter. 

MENDEL  [Astonished] 

He  hasn't  answered  your  letter  ? 

VERA 

Oh,  I'm  not  Miss  Andrews ;  I'm  only  her  assistant. 

MENDEL 

I  see — Kathleen,  whatever  are  you  doing  under  the 

table  ? 

[KATHLEEN,  in  her  hunting  around  for  the  candle- 
stick, is  now  stooping  and  lifting  up  the  table- 
cloth] 

KATHLEEN 

Sure  the  fiend's  after  witching  away  the  candle- 
shtick. 


MENDEL  [Embarrassed] 

The  candlestick  ?     Oh — I — I  think  you'll  find  it  in 

my  bedroom. 

KATHLEEN 

Wisha,  now  ! 

[She  goes  into  his  bedroom.] 

MENDEL  [Turning  apologetically  to  VERA] 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Andrews,  I  mean  Miss — er 


VERA 

Revendal. 

MENDEL  [Slightly  more  interested] 

Revendal  ?     Then  you  must  be  the  Miss  Revendal 

David  told  me  about ! 

VERA  [Blushing] 

Why,  he  has  only  seen  me  once — the  time  he  played 

at  our  Roof-Garden  Concert. 

MENDEL 

Yes,  but  he  was  so  impressed  by  the  way  you  handled 
those  new  immigrants — the  Spirit  of  the  Settlement, 
he  called  you. 

VERA  [Modestly] 

Ah,  no — Miss  Andrews  is  that.  And  you  will  tell 
him  to  answer  her  letter  at  once,  won't  you,  because 
there's  only  a  week  now  to  our  Concert. 

[A  gust  of  wind  shakes  the  windows.     She  smiles.] 
Naturally  it  will  not  be  on  the  Roof  Garden. 
16 


MENDEL  [Half  to  himself] 

Fancy  David  not  saying  a  word  about  it  to  me  !     Are 

you  sure  the  letter  was  mailed  ? 

VERA 

I  mailed  it  myself — a  week  ago.     And  even  in  New 
York 

[She  smiles.     Re-enter  KATHLEEN  with  the  recovered 

candlestick] 

KATHLEEN 

Bedad,  ye're  as  great  a  shleep-walker  as  Mr.  David  ! 
[She  places  the  candlestick  on  the  table  and  moves 
toward  her  bedroom.] 

MENDEL 
Kathleen  ! 

KATHLEEN  [Pursuing  her  walk  without  turning] 
I'm  not  here  ! 

MENDEL 

Did  you  take  in  a  letter  for  Mr.  David  about  a  week  ago? 

[Smiling  at  MISS  REVENDAL] 
He  doesn't  get  many,  you  see. 

KATHLEEN  [Turning] 

A  letter  ?     Sure,   I  took  in  ounly  a  postcard  from 

Miss  Johnson,  an'  that  ounly  sayin' 

VERA 

And  you  don't  remember  a  letter — a  large  letter — 

last  Saturday — with  the  seal  of  our  Settlement  ? 

17  B 


KATHLEEN 

Last  Saturday  wid  a  seal,  is  it  ?     Sure,  how  could  1 

forgit  it  ? 

MENDEL 

Then  you  did  take  it  in  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Ye're    wrong    entirely.     'Twas    the    misthress    took 
it  in. 

MENDEL  [To  VERA] 

I  am  sorry  the  boy  has  been  so  rude. 

KATHLEEN 

But  the  misthress  didn't  give  it  him  at  wanst — she 
hid  it  away  bekaz  it  was  Shabbos. 

MENDEL 

Oh,  dear — and  she  has  forgotten  to  give  it  to  him. 
Excuse  me 

[He  makes  a  hurried  exit  to  the  kitchen.] 

KATHLEEN 

And  excuse  me — I've  me  thrunk  to  pack. 

[She  goes  toward  her  bedroom,  pauses  at  the  door.] 
And  ye'll  witness  I  don't  pack  the  candleshtick. 

[Emphatic  exit.] 

VERA  [Still  dazed] 

A  Jew !     That  wonderful  boy  a  Jew  !   .  .  .  But  then 

18 


so  was  David  the  shepherd  youth  with  his  harp  and 
his  psalms,  the  sweet  singer  in  Israel. 

[She  surveys  the  room  and  its  content?  with  interest. 

The  windows  rattle  once  or  twice  in  the  rising  wind. 

The  light  gets  gradually   less.       She  picks  up   the 

huge  Hebrew  tome  on  the  piano  and  puts  it  down  with 

a  slight  smile  as  if  overwhelmed  by  the  weight  oj 

alien  antiquity.       Then  she  goes  over  to  the  desk 

and  picks  up  the  printed  music.] 

Mendelssohn's  Concerto,  Tartini's  Sonata  in  G  Minor, 
Bach's  Chaconne  .  .  . 

[She  looks  up  at  the  book-rack.] 

"  History  of  the  American  Commonwealth,"  "  Cy- 
clopaedia of  History,"  "  History  of  the  Jews  " — he 
seems  very  fond  of  history.  Ah,  there's  Shelley  and 
Tennyson. 

\With  surprise] 

Nietzsche  next  to  the  Bible  ?  No  Russian  books 
apparently 

[Re-enter  MENDEL  triumphantly  with  a  large  sealed 

letter.] 

MENDEL 

Here  it  is !  As  it  came  on  Saturday,   my  mother 
was  afraid  David  would  open  it  ! 

VERA  [Smiling] 

But  what  can  you  do  with  a  letter  except  open  it  ? 

Any  more  than  with  an  oyster  ? 

MENDEL  [Smiling  as  he  puts  the  letter  on  DAVID'S 
desk] 


To  a  pious  Jew  letters  and  oysters  are  alike  forbidden — 
at  least  letters  may  not  be  opened  on  our  day  of  rest. 

VERA 

I'm  sure  I  couldn't  rest  till  I'd  opened  mine. 

[Enter  from  the  kitchen  FRAU  QUIXANO,  defending 
herself  with  excited  gesticulation.  She  is  an  old 
lady  with  a  black  wig,  but  her  appearance  is  digni- 
fled,  venerable  even,  in  no  way  comic.  She  speaks 
Tiddish  exclusively,  that  being  largely  the  language 
of  the  Russian  Pale.] 

FRAU  QUIXANO 

Obber  ich  hob  gesogt  zu  Kathleen 


MENDEL  [Turning  and  going  to  her] 
Yes,  yes,  mother,  that's  all  right  now. 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [In  horror,  perceiving  her  Hebrew 

book  on  the  floor,  where  KATHLEEN  has  dropped  it] 
Mein  Buch  ! 

[She  picks  it  up  and  kisses  it  piously .] 

MENDEL  [Presses  her  into  her  flreside  chair] 
Ruhig,  ruhig,  Mutter  ! 

[To  VERA] 

She  understands  barely  a  word  of  English — she  won't 
disturb  us. 

VERA 

Oh,  but  I  must  be  going — I  was  so  long  finding  the 
house,  and  look  !  it  has  begun  to  snow  ! 

[They  both  turn  their  heads  and  look  at  the  falling  snow. ] 

20 


MENDEL 

All  the  more  reason  to  wait  for  David — it  may  leave 
off.     He  can't  be  long  now.     Do  sit  down. 
[He  offers  a  chair.] 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Looking  round  suspiciously] 
Wos  will  die  Shikseh  ? 

VERA 

What  does  your  mother  say  ? 

MENDEL  [Half-smiling] 

Oh,  only  asking  what  your  heathen  ladyship  desires. 

VERA 

Tell  her  I  hope  she  is  well. 

MENDEL 

Das  Fraulein  hofft  dass  es  geht  gut 


FRAU  QUIXANO  [Shrugging  her  shoulders  in  despair- 
ing astonishment] 
Gut  ?     Urf  wie  soil  es  gut  gehen — in  Amerika  ! 

[She    takes   out   her   spectacles,    and   begins   slowly 

polishing  and  adjusting  them.] 

VERA  [Smiling] 

I  understood  that  last  word. 

MENDEL 

She    asks    how    can    anything    possibly    go    well    in 
America  ! 

21 


VERA 

Ah,  she  doesn't  like  America. 

MENDEL  [Half-smiling] 

Her  favourite  exclamation  is  "  A  Klog  zu  Columbes- 

sen  !  " 

VERA 

What  does  that  mean  ? 

MENDEL 

Cursed  be  Columbus  ! 

VERA  [Laughingly] 

Poor  Columbus  !     I  suppose  she's  just  come  over. 

MENDEL 

Oh,  no,  it  must  be  ten  years  since  I  sent  for  her. 

VERA 

Really  !     But  your  nephew  was  born  here  ? 

MENDEL 

No,  he's  Russian  too.     But  please  sit  down,  you  had 
better  get  his  answer  at  once. 
[VERA  sits.] 

VERA 

I  suppose  you  taught  him  music. 

MENDEL 

I  ?     I  can't  play  the  violin.     He  is  self-taught.     In 

22 


the  Russian  Pale  he  was  a  wonder-child.  Poor  David ! 
He  always  looked  forward  to  coming  to  America  ;  he 
imagined  I  was  a  famous  musician  over  here.  He 
found  me  conductor  in  a  cheap  theatre — a  converted 
beer-hall. 

VERA 

Was  he  very  disappointed  ? 

MENDEL 

Disappointed  ?  He  was  enchanted  !  He  is  crazy 
about  America. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Ah,  he  doesn't  curse  Columbus. 

MENDEL 

My  mother  came  with  her  life  behind  her :  David 
with  his  life  before  him.  Poor  boy  ! 

VERA 

Why  do  you  say  poor  boy  ? 

MENDEL 

What  is  there  before  him  here  but  a  terrible  struggle 
for  life  ?     If  he  doesn't  curse  Columbus,  he'll  curse 
fate.     Music-lessons   and   dance-halls,    beer-halls   and 
weddings — every  hope  and  ambition  will  be  ground 
out  of  him,  and  he  will  die  obscure  and  unknown. 
[His  head  sinks  on  his  breast.     FRAU   QUIXANO   is 
heard  faintly  sobbing  over  her  book.     The  sobbing 
continues  throughout  the  scene.] 
23 


VERA  [Half  rising] 

You  have  made  your  mother  cry. 

MENDEL 

Oh,  no — she  understood  nothing.     She  always  cries 
on  the  eve  of  the  Sabbath. 

VERA  [Mystified,  sinking  back  into  her  chair] 
Always  cries  ?     Why  ? 

MENDEL  [Embarrassed^ 

Oh,  well,  a  Christian  wouldn't  understand 


VERA 

Yes  I  could — do  tell  me  ! 

MENDEL 

She  knows  that  in  this  great  grinding  America,  David 
and  I  must  go  out  to  earn  our  bread  on  Sabbath  as 
on  week-days.  She  never  says  a  word  to  us,  but  her 
heart  is  full  of  tears. 

VERA 

Poor  old  woman.  It  was  wrong  of  us  to  ask  your 
nephew  to  play  at  the  Settlement  for  nothing. 

MENDEL  [Rising  fiercely] 

If  you  offer  him  a  fee,  he  shall  not  play.     Did  you 

think  I  was  begging  of  you  ? 

VERA 

I  beg  your  pardon 

[She  smiles.] 

There,  /  am  begging  of  you.     Sit  down,  please. 
24 


MENDEL  [Walking  away  to  piano] 

I  ought  not  to  have  burdened  you  with  our  troubles 

— you  are  too  young. 

VERA  [Pathetically] 

I  young  ?     If  you  only  knew  how  old  I  am  ! 

MENDEL 

You? 

VERA 

I  left  my  youth  in  Russia — eternities  ago. 

MENDEL 

You  know  our  Russia  ! 

[He  goes  over  to  her  and  sits  down.] 

VERA 

Can't  you  see  I'm  a  Russian,  too  ? 
[With  a  faint  tremulous  smile] 

I  might  even  have  been  a  Siberian  had  I  stayed.     But 
I  escaped  from  my  gaolers. 

MENDEL 

You  were  a  Revolutionist  ! 

VERA 

Who  can  live  in  Russia  and  not  be  ?     So  you  see 
trouble  and  I  are  not  such  strangers. 

MENDEL 

Who  would  have  thought  it  to  look  at  you  ?     Siberia, 
gaolers,  revolutions  ! 

[Rising] 

What  terrible  things  life  holds  ! 
25 


VERA 

Yes,  even  in  free  America. 

[FRAU  QUIXANO'S  sobbing  grows  slightly  louder.] 

MENDEL 

That  Settlement  work  must  be  full  of  tragedies. 

VERA 

Sometimes  one  sees  nothing  but  the  tragedy  of  things. 

[Looking  toward  the  window~\ 

The  snow  is  getting  thicker.     How  pitilessly  it  falls — 
like  fate. 

MENDEL  [Following  her  gaze] 

Yes,  icy  and  inexorable. 

[The  faint  sobbing  of  FRAU  QUIXANO  over  her  book, 
which  has  been  heard  throughout  the  scene  as  a  sort 
of  musical  accompaniment,  has  combined  to  work  it 
up  to  a  mood  of  intense  sadness,  intensified  by  the 
growing  dusk,  so  that  as  the  two  now  gaze  at  the 
Jailing  snow,  the  atmosphere  seems  overbrooded  with 
melancholy.  There  is  a  moment  or  two  without 
dialogue,  given  over  to  the  sobbing  of  FRAU  QUIXANO, 
the  roar  of  the  wind  shaking  the  windows,  the  quick 
falling  of  the  snow.  Suddenly  a  happy  voice  singing 
"  My  Country  "'tis  of  Thee  "  is  heard  from  without."] 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Pricking   up    her   ears,  joyously] 
Do  ist  Dovidel ! 

MENDEL 

That's  David  ! 

[He  springs  up] 
26 


VERA  [Murmurs  in  relief] 

Ah! 

[The  whole  atmosphere  is  changed  to  one  of  joyous 
expectation.  DAVID  is  seen  and  heard  passing  the 
left  window,  still  singing  the  national  hymn,  but  it 
breaks  off  abruptly  as  he  throws  open  the  door  and 
appears  on  the  threshold,  a  buoyant  snow- covered 
figure  in  a  cloak  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  carrying 
a  violin  case.  He  is  a  sunny,  handsome  youth  of 
the  finest  Russo-Jewish  type.  He  speaks  with  a 
slight  German  accent.] 

DAVID 

Isn't  it  a  beautiful  world,  uncle  ? 

[He  closes  the  inner  door.] 
Snow,  the  divine  white  snow- 


\Perceiving  the  visitor  with  amaze] 
Miss  Revendal  here  ! 

[He  removes  his  hat  and  looks  at  her  with  boyish 
reverence  and  wonder.] 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Don't  look  so  surprised — I  haven't  fallen  from  heaven 

like  the  snow.     Take  off  your  wet  things. 

DAVID 

Oh,  it's  nothing  ;  it's  dry  snow. 

[He  lays  down  his  violin  case  and  brushes  off  the  snow 
from  his  cloak,  which  MENDEL  takes  from  him  and  hangs 

on  the  rack,  all  without  interrupting  the  dialogue.] 

If  I  had  only  known  you  were  waiting 

27 


VERA 

I  am  glad  you  didn't — I  wouldn't  have  had  those 
poor  little  cripples  cheated  out  of  a  moment  of  your 
music. 

DAVID 

Uncle  has  told  you  ?     Ah,  it  was  bully  !     You  should 
have  seen  the  cripples  waltzing  with  their  crutches  ! 
[He  has  moved  toward  the  old  woman ,  and  while 
he  holds  one  hand   to  the  blaze  now  pats  her  cheek 
with   the  other  in  greeting,   to  which  she  responds 
with   a  loving  smile  ere  she  settles  contentedly   to 
slumber  over  her  bookJ\ 
Es  war  grossartig,  Granny.     Even  the  paralysed  danced. 

MENDEL 

Don't  exaggerate,  David. 

DAVID 

Exaggerate,  uncle  !  Why,  if  they  hadn't  the  use  of 
their  legs,  their  arms  danced  on  the  counterpane  ; 
if  their  arms  couldn't  dance,  their  hands  danced 
from  the  wrist ;  and  if  their  hands  couldn't  dance, 
they  danced  with  their  fingers ;  and  if  their  fingers 
couldn't  dance,  their  heads  danced ;  and  if  their 
heads  were  paralysed,  why,  their  eyes  danced — God 
never  curses  so  utterly  but  you've  something  left  to 
dance  with  ! 

[He  moves  toward  his  deskJ] 

VERA  [Infected  with  his  gaiety] 
You'll  tell  us  next  the  beds  danced. 
28 


DAVID 

So  they  did — they  shook  their  legs  like  mad  ! 

VERA 

Oh,  why  wasn't  I  there  ? 

[His  eyes  meet  hers  at  the  thought  of  her  presence.] 

DAVID 

Dear  little  cripples,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  play  them  all 
straight  again  with  the  love  and  joy  jumping  out  of 
this  old  riddle. 

[He  lays  his  hand  caressingly  on  the  violin.] 

MENDEL  [Gloomily] 

But  in  reality  you  left  them  as  crooked  as  ever. 

DAVID 

No,  I  didn't. 

[He  caresses  the  back  of  his  uncle^s  head  in  affec- 
tionate rebuke, .] 

I  couldn't  play  their  bones  straight,  but  I  played  their 

brains   straight.     And  hunch-brains  are  worse   than 

hunch-backs.  .  .  . 

[Suddenly  perceiving  his  letter  on  the  desk] 

A  letter  for  me  ! 

[He  takes  it  with  boyish  eagerness,   then  hesitates 
to  open  it.] 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Oh,  you  may  open  it ! 

DAVID  [Wistfully] 
May  I  ? 

29 


VERA  [Smiling] 

Yes,  and  quick — or  it'll  be  Shabbos  ! 
[DAVID  looks  up  at  her  in  wonder .] 

MENDEL  [Smiling] 
You  read  your  letter  ! 

DAVID   [Opens  it  eagerly,   then  smiles  broadly  with 

pleasure.] 

Oh,  Miss  Revendal  !  Isn't  that  great  !  To  play 
again  at  your  Settlement.  I  am  getting  famous. 

VERA 

But  we  can't  offer  you  a  fee. 

MENDEL  [Quickly  sotto  voce  to  VERA] 
Thank  you  ! 

DAVID 

A  fee  !  I'd  pay  a  fee  to  see  all  those  happy  immigrants 
you  gather  together — Dutchmen  and  Greeks,  Poles 
and  Norwegians,  Welsh  and  Armenians.  If  you  only 
had  Jews,  it  would  be  as  good  as  going  to  Ellis  Island. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

What  a  strange  taste  !     Who  on  earth  wants  to  go  to 

Ellis  Island  ? 

DAVID 

Oh,  I  love  going  to  Ellis  Island  to  watch  the  ships 
coming  in  from  Europe,  and  to  think  that  all  those 
weary,  sea-tossed  wanderers  are  feeling  what  /  felt 
3° 


when  America  first  stretched  out  her  great  mother- 
hand  to  me  ! 

VERA  [Softly] 

Were  you  very  happy  ? 

DAVID 

It  was  heaven.  You  must  remember  that  all  my  life 
I  had  heard  of  America — everybody  in  our  town  had 
friends  there  or  was  going  there  or  got  money  orders 
from  there.  The  earliest  game  I  played  at  was  selling 
off  my  toy  furniture  and  setting  up  in  America.  All 
my  life  America  was  waiting,  beckoning,  shining — the 
place  where  God  would  wipe  away  tears  from  off  all 
faces. 

[He  ends  in  a  half-sob.] 

MENDEL  [Rises,  as  in  terror] 
Now,  now,  David,  don't  get  excited. 
[Approaches  him.] 

DAVID 

To  think  that  the  same  great  torch  of  liberty  which 
threw  its  light  across  all  the  broad  seas  and  lands 
into  my  little  garret  in  Russia,  is  shining  also  for 
all  those  other  weeping  millions  of  Europe,  shining 
wherever  men  hunger  and  are  oppressed 

MENDEL  [Soothingly] 
Yes,  yes,  David. 

[Laying  hand  on  his  shoulder] 
Now  sit  down  and 


DAVID  [Unheeding] 

Shining  over  the  starving  villages  of  Italy  and  Ireland, 
over  the  swarming  stony  cities  of  Poland  and  Galicia, 
over  the  ruined  farms  of  Roumania,  over  the  shambles 
of  Russia 

MENDEL  [Pleadingly] 
David! 

DAVID 

Oh,  Miss  Revendal,  when  I  look  at  our  Statue  of 
Liberty,  I  just  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  America 
crying :  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are 

heavy  laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest — rest " 

[He  is  now  almost  sobbing.] 

MENDEL 

Don't  talk  any  more — you  know  it  is  bad  for  you. 

DAVID 

But  Miss  Revendal  asked — and  I  want  to  explain  to 
her  what  America  means  to  me. 

MENDEL 

You  can  explain  it  in  your  American  symphony. 

VERA  [Eagerly — to  DAVID] 
You  compose  ? 

DAVID  [Embarrassed] 

Oh,  uncle,  why  did  you  talk  of — ?     Uncle  always— 

my  music  is  so  thin  and  tinkling.     When  I  am  writing 

32 


my  American  symphony,  it  seems  like  thunder  crashing 
through  a  forest  full  of  bird  songs.  But  next  day — 
oh,  next  day  ! 

[He  laughs  dolefully  and  turns  away.] 

VERA 

So  your  music  finds  inspiration  in  America  ? 

DAVID 

Yes — in  the  seething  of  the  Crucible. 

VERA 

The  Crucible  ?     I  don't  understand  ! 

DAVID 

Not  understand  !     You,  the  Spirit  of  the  Settlement  ! 

[He  rises  and  crosses  to  her  and  leans  over  the  table, 

facing  her.~\ 

Not  understand  that  America  is  God's  Crucible,  the 
great  Melting-Pot  where  all  the  races  of  Europe  are 
melting  and  re-forming  !  Here  you  stand,  good  folk, 
think  I,  when  I  see  them  at  Ellis  Island,  here  you 
stand 

[Graphically  illustrating  it  on  the  table] 
in  your  fifty  groups,  with  your  fifty  languages   and 
histories,  and  your  fifty  blood  hatreds  and  rivalries. 
But  you  won't  be  long  like  that,  brothers,  for  these 
are  the  fires  of  God  you've  come  to — these  are  the 
fires  of  God.     A  fig  for  your  feuds  and  vendeitas  ! 
Germans  and  Frenchmen,  Irishmen  and  Englishmen, 
Jews  and   Russians — into  the  Crucible  with  you  all ! 
God  is  making  the  American. 
33  c 


MENDEL 

I  should  have  thought  the  American  was  made  already 
— eighty  millions  of  him. 

DAVID 

Eighty  millions  ! 

[He  smiles  toward  VERA  in  good-humoured  derision  J] 
Eighty  millions  !  Over  a  continent  !  Why,  that 
cockleshell  of  a  Britain  has  forty  millions  !  No,  uncle, 
the  real  American  has  not  yet  arrived.  He  is  only  in 
the  Crucible,  I  tell  you — he  will  be  the  fusion  of  all 
races,  perhaps  the  coming  superman.  Ah,  what  a 
glorious  Finale  for  my  symphony — if  I  can  only 
write  it. 

VERA 

But  you  have  written  some  of  it  already  !     May  I 
not  see  it  ? 

DAVID  [Relapsing  into  boyish  shyness] 

No,  if  you  please,  don't  ask 

[He  moves  over  to  his  desk  amd  nervously  shuts  it 
down  and  turns  the  keys  of  drawers  as  though 
-protecting  his  MS.] 

VERA 

Won't  you  give  a  bit  of  it  at  our  Concert  ? 

DAVID 

Oh,  it  needs  an  orchestra. 

VERA 

But  you  at  the  violin  and  I  at  the  piano 

34 


MENDEL 

You  didn't  tell  me  you  played,  Miss  Revendal  ! 

VERA 

I  told  you  less  commonplace  things. 

DAVID 

Miss  Revendal  plays  quite  like  a  professional. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

I  don't  feel  so  complimented  as  you  expect.     You  see 

I  did  have  a  professional  training. 

MENDEL  [Smiling] 

And  I  thought  you  came  to  me  for  lessons  ! 
[DAVID  laughs.] 

VERA  [Smiling] 

No,  I  went  to  Petersburg 

DAVID  [Dazed] 
To  Petersburg ? 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Naturally.     To    the    Conservatoire.     There    wasn't 

much  music  to  be  had  at  Kishineff,  a  town  where 

DAVID 

Kishineff ! 

[He  begins  to  tremble] 

VERA  [Still  smiling] 
My  birthplace. 
35 


MENDEL  [Coming  toward  him,  -protectingly] 
Calm  yourself,  David. 

DAVID 

Yes,  yes — so  you  are  a  Russian  ! 
[He  shudders  violently,  staggers.] 

VERA  [Alarmed] 
You  are  ill  ! 

DAVID 

It  is  nothing,  I — not  much  music  at  Kishinefr"  !  No, 
only  the  Death-March  !  .  .  .  Mother  !  Father  ! 
Ah — cowards,  murderers  !  And  you  ! 

[He  shakes  his  jist  at  the  air.] 

You,  looking  on  with  your  cold  butcher's  face  !  O 
God!  OGod! 

[He   bursts   into   hysterical  sobs  and  runs,   shame- 
facedly, through  the  door  to  his  room.] 

VERA  [Wildly] 

What  have  I  said  ?     What  have  I  done  ? 

MENDEL 

Oh,  I  was  afraid  of  this,  I  was  afraid  of  this. 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Who  has  fallen  asleep  over  her 
book,  wakes  as  if  with  a  sense  of  the  horror  and 
gazes  dazedly  around,  adding  to  the  thrillingness 
of  the  moment] 

Dovidel  I     Wu  is*  Dovidel  !     Mir  dacht  sack 

36 


MENDEL  [Pressing  her  back  to  her  slumbers] 
Du  traumst,  Mutter  !     Schlaf  ! 
[She  sinks  back  to  sleep.] 

VERA  [In  hoarse  whisper] 

His  father  and  mother  were  massacred  ? 

MENDEL  [In  same  tense  tone] 

Before  his  eyes — father,  mother,  sisters,  down  to  the 
youngest  babe,  whose  skull  was  battered  in  by  a 
hooligan's  heel. 

VERA 

How  did  be  escape  ? 

MENDEL 

He  was  shot  in  the  shoulder,  and  fell  unconscious. 
As  he  wasn't  a  girl,  the  hooligans  left  him  for  dead 
and  hurried  to  fresh  sport. 

VERA 

Terrible  !     Terrible  ! 
[Almost  in  tears.] 

MENDEL  [Shrugging  shoulders,  hopelessly] 
It  is  only  Jewish  history!  .  .  .  David  belongs  to  the 
species  of  pogrom  orphan — they  arrive  in  the  States 
by  almost  every  ship. 

VERA 

Poor  boy  !     Poor  boy  !     And  he  looked  so  happy  ! 

[She  half  sobs.] 
37 


MENDEL 

So  he  is,  most  of  the  time — a  sunbeam  took  human 
shape  when  he  was  born.  But  naturally  that  dreadful 
scene  left  a  scar  on  his  brain,  as  the  bullet  left  a  scar 
on  his  shoulder,  and  he  is  always  liable  to  see  red 
when  Kishineff  is  mentioned. 

VERA 

I  will  never  mention  my  miserable  birthplace  to  him 
again. 

MENDEL 

But  you  see  every  few  months  the  newspapers  tell 
us  of  another  -pogrom,  and  then  he  screams  out  against 
what  he  calls  that  butcher's  face,  so  that  I  tremble  for 
his  reason.  I  tremble  even  when  I  see  him  writing 
that  crazy  music  about  America,  for  it  only  means 
he  is  brooding  over  the  difference  between  America 
and  Russia. 

VERA 

But  perhaps — perhaps — all  the  terrible  memory  will 
pass  peacefully  away  in  his  music. 

MENDEL 

There  will  always  be  the  scar  on  his  shoulder  to 
remind  him — whenever  the  wound  twinges,  it  brings 
up  these  terrible  faces  and  visions. 

VERA 

Is  it  on  his  right  shoulder  ? 
38 


MENDEL 

No — on  his  left.     For  a  violinist  that  is  even  worse. 

VERA 

Ah,  of  course — the  weight  and  the  fingering. 

[Subconsciously  placing  and  fingering  an  imaginary 
violin .] 

• 

MENDEL 

That  is  why  I  fear  so  for  his  future — he  will  never  be 
strong  enough  for  the  feats  of  bravura  that  the  public 
demands. 

VERA 

The  wild  beasts !  I  feel  more  ashamed  of  my  country 
than  ever.  But  there's  his  symphony. 

MENDEL 

And  who  will  look  at  that  amateurish  stuff  ?  He 
knows  so  little  of  harmony  and  counterpoint — he 
breaks  all  the  rules.  I've  tried  to  give  him  a  few 
pointers — but  he  ought  to  have  gone  to  Germany. 

VERA 

Perhaps  it's  not  too  late. 

MENDEL  [Passionately] 

Ah,  if  you  and  your  friends  could  help  him  !     See — 

I'm  begging  after  all.     But  it's  not  for  myself. 

VERA 

My  father  loves  music.  Perhaps  he — but  no  !  he 
39 


lives  in  Kishineff.     But  I  will  think — there  are  people 
here — I  will  write  to  you. 

MENDEL  [Fervently] 
Thank  you  !     Thank  you  ! 

VERA 

Now  you  must  go  to  him.     Good-bye.     Tell  him 
I  count  upon  him  for  the  Concert. 

MENDEL 

How  good  you  are  ! 

[He  follows  her  to  the  street-door.] 

VERA  [At  door] 

Say   good-bye   for   me   to   your   mother — she   seems 

asleep. 

MENDEL  [Opening  outer  door] 
I  am  sorry  it  is  snowing  so. 

VERA 

We  Russians  are  used  to  it. 

[Smiling,  at  exit] 

Good-bye — let  us  hope  your  David  will  turn  out  a 
Rubinstein. 

MENDEL  [Closing  the  doors  softly] 

I   never   thought    a    Russian   Christian   could   be   so 

human. 

[He  looks  at  the  clock.] 
40 


Gott  in  Himmel — my  dancing  class  ! 

[He  hurries  into  the  overcoat  hanging  on  the  hat- 
rack.  Re-enter  DAVID,  having  composed  himself, 
but  still  somewhat  dazed.] 

DAVID 

She  is  gone  ?     Oh,  but  I  have  driven  her  away  by  my 

craziness-     Is  she  very  angry  ? 

MENDEL 

Quite  the  contrary — she  expects  you  at  the  Concert, 

and  what  is  more 

DAVID  [Ecstatically] 

And  she  understood  !  She  understood  my  Crucible 
of  God  !  Oh,  uncle,  you  don't  know  what  it  means 
to  me  to  have  somebody  who  understands  me.  Even 
you  have  never  understood 

MENDEL  [Wounded] 

Nonsense  !     How  can  Miss  Revendal  understand  you 

better  than  your  own  uncle  ? 

DAVID  [Mystically  exalted] 
I  can't  explain — I  feel  it. 

MENDEL 

Of  course  she's  interested  in  your  music,  thank  Heaven. 
But  what  true  understanding  can  there  be  between  a 
Russian  Jew  and  a  Russian  Christian  ? 
41 


DAVID 

What  understanding  ?     Aren't  we  both  Americans  ? 

MENDEL 

Well,  I  haven't  time  to  discuss  it  now. 
[He  winds  hif  muffler  round,  bis  throat.] 

DAVID 

Why,  where  are  you  going  ? 

MENDEL  [Ironically] 

Where  should  I  be  going — in  the  snow — on  the-  eve  of 

the  Sabbath  ?     Suppose  we  say  to  synagogue  ! 

DAVID 

Oh,  uncle — how  you  always  seem  to  hanker  after 
those  old  things  ! 

MENDEL  [Tartly] 
Nonsense  ! 

[He  takes  his  umbrella  from  the  stand.] 
I  don't  like  to  see  our  people  going  to  pieces,  that's  all. 

DAVID 

Then  why  did  you  come  to  America  ?  Why  didn't 
you  work  for  a  Jewish  land  ?  You're  not  even  a 
Zionist. 

MENDEL 

I  can't  argue  now.     There's  a  pack  of  giggling  school- 
girls waiting  to  waltz. 
42 


DAVID 

The  fresh  romping  young  things  !  Think  of  their 
happiness !  I  should  love  to  play  for  them. 

MENDEL  [Sarcastically] 

I  can  see  you  are  yourself  again. 

[He  opens  the  street-door — turns  back] 
What    about   your    own   lesson  ?     Can't   we   go    to- 
gether ? 

DAVID 

I  must  first  write  down  what  is  singing  in  my  soul — 
oh,  uncle,  it  seems  as  if  I  knew  suddenly  what  was 
wanting  in  my  music  ! 

MENDEL  [Drily] 

Well,  don't  forget  what  is  wanting  in  the  house  !   The 

rent  isn't  paid  yet. 

[Exit  through  street-door.  As  he  goes  out,  he  touches 
and  kisses  the  Mezuzah  on  the  door-post,  with 
a  subconsciously  antagonistic  revival  of  religious 
impulse.  DAVID  opens  his  desk,  takes  out  a  pile  of 
musical  manuscript,  sprawls  over  his  chair  and, 
humming  to  himself,  scribbles  feverishly  with  the 
quill.  After  a  few  moments  FRAU  QUIXANO  yawns, 
wakes^  and  stretches  herself.  Then  she  looks  at 
the  clock.] 

FRAU  QUIXANO 

Shabbos  / 

[She  rises  and  goes  to  the  table  and  sees  there  are 
43 


no  candles,  walks  to  the  chiffonier  and  gets  them 
and  places  them  in  the  candlesticks,  then  lights 
the  candles,  muttering  a  ceremonial  Hebrew  bene- 
diction.] 

Boruch   atto  haddoshem  elloheinu  melech  hoolam  assher 

kiddishonu  bemitzvosov   vettzivonu   lehadlik   neir  shel 

shabbos. 

[She  pulls  down  the  blinds  of  the  two  windows,  then 
she  goes  to  the  rapt  composer  and  touches  him, 
remindingly,  on  the  shoulder.  He  does  not  move, 
but  continues  writing.] 

Dovidel ! 

[He  looks  up   dazedly.     She  points  to  the  candles] 

Shabbos  ! 

[A  sweet  smile  comes  over  his  face,  he  throws  the 
quill  resignedly  away  and  submits  his  head  to  her 
hands  and  her  muttered  Hebrew  blessing] 

Tesimcho  elohim  ke-efrayim  vechimnasseh — yevorechecho 

haddoshem  veyishmerecho,  yoer  hadoshem  ponov  eilecho 

vechunecho,  yisso  hadoshem  ponov  eilecho  veyosem  lecho 

sholom. 

[Then  she  goes  toward  the  kitchen.  As  she  turns 
at  the  door,  he  is  again  writing.  She  shakes  her 
finger  at  him,  repeating 

Gut  Shabbos  1 

DAVID 

Gut  Shabbos  ! 

[Puts  down  the  pen  and  smiles  after  her  till  the  door 
closes,  then  with  a  deep  sigh  takes  his  cape  from  the 
peg  and  his  violin- case,  pauses,  still  humming,  to 
take  up  his  pen  and  write  down  a  fresh  phrase, 

44 


finally  puts  on  his  hat  and  is  just  about  to  open 
the  street-door  when  KATHLEEN  enters  from  her 
bedroom  fully  dressed  to  go,  and  laden  with  a  large 
brown  paper  parcel  and  an  umbrella.  He  turns 
at  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  and  remains  at  the 
door,  holding  his  violin-case  during  the  ensuing 
dialogue  J\ 

DAVID 

You're  not  going  out  this  bitter  weather  ? 

KATHLEEN    [Sharply  fending    him    off   with    her 

umbrella] 
And  who's  to  shtay  me  ? 

DAVID 

Oh,   but  you   mustn't — I'll  do  your   errand — what 

is  it  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Indignantly] 

Errand,  is  it,  indeed  !     I'm  not  here  I 

DAVID 

Not  here  ? 


KATHLEEN 

I'm  lavin',  they'll  come  for  me  thrunk — and    ye'll 

witness  I  don't  take  the  candleshtick. 

DAVID 

But  who's  sending  you  away  ? 
45 


KATHLEEN 

It's   sending   meself   away   I    am — yer   houly   grand- 
mother has  me  disthroyed  intirely. 

DAVID 

Why,  what  has  the  poor  old  la ? 


KATHLEEN 

I  don't  be  saltin'  the  mate  and  I  do  be  mixin'  the 

crockery  and ! 

DAVID  [Gently] 

I  know,  I  know — but,  Kathleen,  remember  she  was 
brought  up  to  these  things  from  childhood.  And  her 
father  was  a  Rabbi. 

KATHLEEN 

What's  that  ?     A  priest  ? 

DAVID 

A  sort  of  priest.  In  Russia  he  was  a  great  man. 
Her  husband,  too,  was  a  mighty  scholar,  and  to  give 
him  time  to  study  the  holy  books  she  had  to  do  chores 
all  day  for  him  and  the  children. 

KATHLEEN 
Oh,  those  priests ! 

DAVID  [Smiling] 

No,  be  wasn't  a  priest.     But  he  took  sick  and  died 

46 


and  the  children  left  her — went  to  America  or  heaven 
or  other  far-off  places — and  she  was  left  all  penniless 
and  alone. 

KATHLEEN 

Poor  ould  lady. 

DAVID 

Not  so  old  yet,  for  she  was  married  at  fifteen. 

KATHLEEN 

Poor  young  crathur  ! 

DAVID 

But  she  was  still  the  good  angel  of  the  congregation — 
sat  up  with  the  sick  and  watched  over  the  dead. 

KATHLEEN 

Saints  alive  !     And  not  scared  ? 

DAVID 

No,  nothing  scared  her — except  me.  I  got  a  broken- 
down  fiddle  and  used  to  play  it  even  on  Shabbos — I 
was  very  naughty.  But  she  was  so  lovely  to  me. 
I  still  remember  the  heavenly  taste  of  a  piece  of 
Motso  she  gave  me  dipped  in  raisin  wine  !  Passover 
cake,  you  know. 

KATHLEEN  [Proudly] 
Oh,  /  know  Motso. 

DAVID  [Smacks  his  lips,  repeats] 

Heavenly  ! 

47 


KATHLEEN 

Sure,  I  must  tashte  it. 

DAVID  [Shaking  his  head,  mysteriously] 
Only  little  boys  get  that  tashte. 

KATHLEEN 
That's  quare. 

DAVID  {Smiling} 

Very  quare.  And  then  one  day  my  uncle  sent  the 
old  lady  a  ticket  to  come  to  America.  But  it  is  not 
so  happy  for  her  here  because  you  see  my  uncle  has 
to  be  near  his  theatre  and  can't  live  in  the  Jewish 
quarter,  and  so  nobody  understands  her,  and  she  sits 
all  the  livelong  day  alone — alone  with  her  book  and 
her  religion  and  her  memories 

KATHLEEN  [Breaking  down} 
Oh,  Mr.  David  ! 

DAVID 

And  now  all  this  long,  cold,  snowy  evening  she'll 
sit  by  the  fire  alone,  thinking  of  her  dead,  and  the 
fire  will  sink  lower  and  lower,  and  she  won't  be  able 
to  touch  it,  because  it's  the  holy  Sabbath,  and  there'll 
be  no  kind  Kathleen  to  brighten  up  the  grey  ashes, 
and  then  at  last,  sad  and  shivering,  she'll  creep  up  to 
her  room  without  a  candlestick,  and  there  in  the 

dark  and  the  cold 

48 


KATHLEEN  {Hysterically  bursting  into  tears,  dropping 

her  parcel,  and  untying  her  bonnet- strings] 
Oh,  Mr.  David,  I  won't  mix  the  crockery,  I  won't 

DAVID  [Heartily] 

Of  course  you  won't.     Good  night. 

[He  slips  out  hurriedly  through  the  street-door  as 
KATHLEEN  throzus  off  her  bonnet^  and  the  curtain 
falls  quickly.  As  it  rises  again,  she  is  seen  strenu- 
ously poking  the  fire,  illumined  by  its  red  glow] 


49 


Act  II 

The  same  scene  on  an  afternoon  a  month  later.  DAVID 
is  discovered  at  his  desk,  scribbling  music  in  a  fever 
.of  enthusiasm.  MENDEL,  dressed  in  his  best,  is 
-playing  softly  on  the  -piano,  watching  DAVID.  After 
an  instant  or  two  of  indecision,  he  puts  down  the 
piano-lid  with  a  bang  and  rises  decisively. 

MENDEL 

David  ! 

DAVID  {Putting  up  his  left  hand] 

Please,  please  

[He  writes  feverishly. ~\ 

MENDEL 

But  I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously — at  once. 

DAVID 

I'm  just  re- writing  the  Finale.  Oh,  such  a  splendid 
inspiration  ! 

[He  writes  on.~\ 

MENDEL  [Shrugs  his  shoulders  and  reseats  himself 
at  piano.  He  plays  a  bar  or  two.  Looks  at  watch 
impatiently.  Resolutely] 

Ddvid,  I've  got  wonderful  news  for  you.  Miss 
Revendal  is  bringing  somebody  to  see  you,  and  we 
have  hopes  of  getting  you  sent  to  Germany  to  study 
composition. 

[DAVID  does  not  reply,  but  writes  rapidly  on.] 


Why,  he  hasn't  heard  a  word  ! 

[He  shouts.] 
David  ! 

DAVID  [Writing  on] 

I  can't,  uncle.     I  must  put  it  down  while  that  glorious 

impression  is  fresh. 

MENDEL 

What  impression  ?     You  only  went  to  the  People's 

Alliance. 

DAVID 

Yes,  and  there  I  saw  the  Jewish  children — a  thousand 
of  'em — saluting  the  Flag. 
[He  writes  on] 

MENDEL 

Well,  what  of  that  ? 

DAVID 

What  of  that  ? 

[He  throws  down  his  quill  and  jumps  up.] 
But    just    fancy   it,    uncle.     The    Stars    and    Stripes 
unfurled,  and  a  thousand  childish  voices,  piping  and 
foreign,  fresh  from  the  lands  of  oppression,  hailing  its 
fluttering  folds.     I  cried  like  a  baby. 

MENDEL 

I'm  afraid  you  are  one. 

52 


DAVID 

Ah,  but  if  you  had  heard  them  —  "  Flag  of  our  Great 
Republic  "  —  the  words  have  gone  singing  at  my  heart 
ever  since  — 

[He  turns  to  the  flag  over  the  door.] 

"  Flag  of  our  Great  Republic,  guardian  of  our  homes, 
whose  stars  and  stripes  stand  for  Bravery,  Purity, 
Truth,  and  Union,  we  salute  thee.  We,  the  natives 
of  distant  lands,  who  find 

[Half -sobbing] 

rest  under  thy  folds,  do  pledge  our  hearts,  our  lives, 
our  sacred  honour  to  love  and  protect  thee,  our  Coun- 
try, and  the  liberty  of  the  American  people  for  ever." 

[He  ends  almost  hysterically.] 

MENDEL  [Soothingly] 

Quite  right.     But  you  needn't  get  so  excited  over  it. 

DAVID 

Not  when  one  hears  the  roaring  of  the  fires  of  God  ? 
Not  when  one  sees  the  souls  melting  in  the  Crucible  ? 
Uncle,  all  those  little  Jews  will  grow  up  Americans  ! 

MENDEL  [Putting  a  pacifying  hand  on  his  shoulder 

and  forcing  him  into  a  chair] 
Sit  down.     I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  your  affairs. 

DAVID  [Sitting] 

My  affairs  !     But  I've  been  talking  about  them  all  the 

time  ! 

53 


MENDEL 
Nonsense,  David. 

[He  sits  beside  him.] 

Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  got  into  a  wider 
world  ? 

DAVID 

Eh  ?     This  planet's  wide  enough  for  me. 

MENDEL 

Do  be  serious.  You  don't  want  to  live  all  your  life 
in  this  room. 

DAVID  [Looks  round] 

What's  the  matter  with  this  room  ?     It's  princely. 

MENDEL  [Raising  his  hands  in  horror] 
Princely  ! 

DAVID 

Imperial.  Remember  when  I  first  saw  it — after 
pigging  a  week  in  the  rocking  steerage,  swinging  in  a 
berth  as  wide  as  my  fiddle-case,  hung  near  the  cooking- 
engines  ;  imagine  the  hot  rancid  smell  of  the  food, 
the  oil  of  the  machinery,  the  odours  of  all  that  close- 
packed,  sea-sick 

MENDEL  [Putting  his  hand  over  DAVID'S  mouth] 
Don't  !     You   make   me   ill !     How   could  you   ever 
bear  it  ? 
54 


DAVID  [Smiling] 

I  was  quite  happy — I  only  had  to  fancy  I'd  been 
shipwrecked,  and  that  after  clinging  to  a  plank  five 
days  without  food  or  water  on  the  great  lonely  Atlantic, 
my  frozen,  sodden  form  had  been  picked  up  by  this 
great  safe  steamer  and  given  this  delightful  dry  berai, 
regular  meals,  and  the  spectacle  of  all  these  friendly 
faces.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  who  was  on  board  that 
boat  ?  Quincy  Davenport. 

MENDEL 

The  lord  of  corn  and  oil  ? 

DAVID  [Smiling] 

Yes,  even  we  wretches  in  the  steerage  felt  safe  to  think 
the  lord  was  up  above,  we  believed  the  company 
would  never  dare  drown  him.  But  could  even  Quincy 
Davenport  command  a  cabin  like  this  ? 

\Waving  his  arm  round  the  room] 
Why,  uncle,  we  have  a  cabin  worth  a  thousand  dollars 
— a   thousand   dollars   a   week — and  what's   more,   it 
doesn't  wobble  ! 

[He  -plants  his  feet  voluptuously  upon  the  floor.  \ 

MENDEL 

Come,  come,  David,  I  asked  you  to  be  serious.  Surely, 
some  day  you'd  like  your  music  produced  ? 

DAVID  [Jumps  up] 

Wouldn't   it   be  glorious  ?     To  hear  it   all   actually 

coming  out  of  violins  and  'cellos,  drums  and  trumpets. 

55 


MENDEL 

And  you'd  like  it  to  go  all  over  the  world  ? 

DAVID 

All  over  the  world  and  all  down  the  ages. 

MENDEL 

But  don't  you  see  that  unless  you  go  and  study  seriously 

in  Germany ? 

[Enter  KATHLEEN /row  kitchen,  carrying  a  furnished 
tea-tray  with  ear-shaped  cakes,  bread  and  butter, 
etc.,  and  wearing  a  grotesque  false  nose.  MENDEL 
cries  out  in  amaze.] 

Kathleen  ! 

DAVID  [Roaring  with  boyish  laughter] 
Ha!   Ha!   Ha!   Ha!   Ha! 

KATHLEEN  [Standing  still  with  her  tray} 
Sure,  what's  the  matter  ? 

DAVID 

Look  in  the  glass ! 

KATHLEEN  [Going  to  the  mantel} 
Houly  Moses ! 

[She  drops  the  tray,  which  MENDEL  catches,  and 

snatches  off  the  nose} 

Och,  I  forgot  to  take  it  off — 'twas  the  misthress  gave 
it  me-  -I  put  it  on  to  cheer  her  up. 
56 


DAVID 

Is  she  so  miserable,  then  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Terrible  low,  Mr.  David,  to-day  being  Purim. 

MENDEL 

Purim  !     Is  to-day  Purim  ? 

[Gives  her  the  tea-tray  back.     KATHLEEN,  to  take 
it,  drops  her  nose  and  forgets  to  pick  it  up.~\ 

DAVID 

But  Purim  is  a  merry  time,  Kathleen,  like  your  Car- 
nival. Haven't  you  read  the  book  of  Esther — how 
the  Jews  of  Persia  escaped  massacre  ? 

KATHLEEN 

That's  what  the  misthress  is  so  miserable  about. 
Ye  don't  keep  the  Carnival.  There's  noses  for  both 
of  ye  in  the  kitchen — didn't  I  go  with  her  to  Hester 
Street  to  buy  'em  ? — but  ye  don't  be  axin'  for  'em. 
And  to  see  your  noses  layin'  around  so  solemn  and 
neglected,  faith,  it  nearly  makes  me  chry  meself. 

MENDEL  [Bitterly  to  himself] 

Who  can  remember  about  Purim  in  America  ? 

DAVID  [Half-smiling] 

Poor  granny,  tell  her  to  come  in  and  I'll  play  her  a 

Purim  jig. 

57 


NENDEL  [Hastily] 

Mo,  no,  David,  not  here — the  visitors ! 

DAVID 

Visitors  ?     What  visitors  ? 

MENDEL  [Impatiently] 

That's  just  what  I've  been  trying  to  explain. 

DAVID 

Well,  I  can  play  in  the  kitchen. 

[He  takes  bis  violin.  Exit  to  kitchen.  MENDEL 
sighs  and  shrugs  his  shoulders  hopelessly  at  the 
boy's  -perversity,  thenjingers  the  cups  and  saucers. ,] 

MENDEL  [Anxiously] 
Is  that  the  best  tea-set  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Can't  you  see  it's  the  Passover  set  ! 

[Ruefully] 

And  shpiled  intirely  it'll  be  now  for  our  Passover.  .  .  . 
And  the  misthress  thought  the  visitors  might  like  to 
thry  some  of  her  Purim  cakes. 

[Indicates  ear-shaped  cakes  on  trayJ] 

MENDEL  [Bitterly} 

Purim  cakes  ! 

[He  turns  his  back  on  her  and  stares  moodily  out 

of  the  window.'] 
58 


KATHLEEN  [Mutters  contemptuously] 
Call  yerself  a  Jew  and  you  forgettin'  to  keep  Purim  ! 
[She  is  going  back  to  the  kitchen  when  a  merry 
Slavic  dance  breaks  out,  softened  by  the  door  ;    her 
feet  unconsciously   get  more  and  more   into   dance 
step,  and  at  last  she  jigs  out.     As  she  opens  and 
passes  through  the  door,  the  music  sounds  louder.] 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Heard  from  kitchen} 
Ha!   Ha!   Ha!   Ha!   Ha!     Kathleen  f! 

[MENDEL'S  feet,  too,  begin  to  take  the  swing  of  the 
music,  and  his  feet  dance  as  he  stares  out  of  the 
window.  Suddenly  the  hoot  of  an  automobile  is 
heard,  followed  by  the  rattling  up  of  the  car.] 

MENDEL 

Ah,  she  has  brought  somebody  swell ! 

[He  throws  open  the  doors  and  goes  out  eagerly  to 
meet  the  visitors.  The  dance  music  goes  on  softly 
throughout  the  scene.] 

QUINCY  DAVENPORT  [Outside] 

Oh,  thank  you — I  leave  the  coats  in  the  car. 

[Enter  an  instant  later  QUINCY  DAVENPORT  and 
VERA  REVENDAL,  MENDEL  in  the  rear.  VERA  is 
dressed  much  as  before,  but  with  a  motor  veil,  which 
she  takes  off  during  the  scene.  DAVENPORT  is  a 
dude,  aping  the  air  of  a  European  sporting  clubman. 
Aged  about  thirty-Jive  and  well  set-up,  he  wears  an 
orchid  and  an  intermittent  eyeglass,  and  gives  the  im- 
pression of  a  coarse-fibred  and  patronisingly  facetious 
but  not  bad-hearted  man,  spoiled  by  prosperity. .] 
59 


MENDEL 

Won't  you  be  seated  ? 

VERA 

First  let  me  introduce  my  friend,  who  is  good  enough 
to  interest  himself  in  your  nephew — Mr.  Quincy 
Davenport. 

MENDEL  [Struck  of  a  heap] 

Mr.  Quincy  Davenport !     How  strange  ! 

VERA 

What  is  strange  ? 

MENDEL 

David  just  mentioned  Mr.  Davenport's  name — said 

they  travelled  to  New  York  on  the  same  boat. 

QUINCY 

Impossible  !  Always  travel  on  my  own  yacht.  Slow 
but  select.  Must  have  been  another  man  of  the 
same  name — my  dad.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 

MENDEL 

Ah,  of  course.     I  thought  you  were  too  young. 

QUINCY 

My  dad,  Miss  Revendal,  is  one  of  those  antiquated 
Americans  who  are  always  in  a  hurry  ! 

VERA 

He  burns  coal  and  you  burn  time. 
60 


QUINCY 

Precisely!     Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

MENDEL 

Won't  you  sit  down — I'll  go  and  prepare  David. 

VERA  [Sitting] 

You've  not  prepared  him  yet  ? 

MENDEL 

I've  tried  to  more  than  once — but  I  never  really  got 

[He  smiles] 
to  Germany. 

[QUINCY  sits."] 

VERA 

Then  prepare  him  for  three  visitors. 

MENDEL 
Three  ? 

VERA 

You    see   Mr.    Davenport   himself  is    no    judge    of 
music. 

QUINCY  [Jumps  up] 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

VERA 

In  manuscript. 
61 


QUINCY 

Ah,  of  course  not.     Music  should  be  heard,  not  seen — 
like  that  jolly  jig.     Is  that  your  David  ? 

MENDEL 

Oh,    you    mustn't    judge    him    by    that.     He's    just 
fooling. 

QUINCY 

Oh,  he'd  better  not  fool  with  Poppy.     Poppy's  awful 
severe. 

MENDEL 

Poppy  ? 

QUINCY 

Pappelmeister — my  private  orchestra  conductor. 

MENDEL 

Is  it  your  orchestra  Pappelmeister  conducts  ? 

QUINCY 

Well,  /  pay  the  piper — and  the  drummer  too  ! 
\He  chuckles.] 

MENDEL  [Sadly] 

I  wanted  to  play  in  it,  but  he  turned  me  down. 

QUINCY 

I  told  you  he  was  awful  severe. 

[To  VERA] 
62 


He  only  allows  me  comic  opera  once  a  week.  My 
wife  calls  him  the  Bismarck  of  the  baton. 

MENDEL  [Reverently] 
A  great  conductor  ! 

QUINCY 

Would  he  have  a  twenty- thousand- dollar  job  with 
me  if  he  wasn't  ?  Not  that  he'd  get  half  that  in  the 
open  market — only  I  have  to  stick  it  on  to  keep  him 
for  my  guests  exclusively. 

[Looks  at  watch.~\ 

But  he  ought  to  be  here,  confound  him.  A  conductor 
should  keep  time,  eh,  Miss  Revendal  ? 

[He  sniggers.] 

MENDEL 

I'll  bring  David.     Won't  you  help  yourselves  to  tea  ? 

[To  VERA] 
You  see  there's  lemon  for  you — as  in  Russia. 

[Exit  to  kitchen — a  moment  afterwards  the  merry 

music  stops  in  the  middle  of  a  bar.] 

VERA 

Thank  you. 

[Taking  a  cup.] 
Do  you  like  lemon,  Mr.  Davenport  ? 

QUINCY  [Flirtatiously] 

That    depends.       The    last    I    had    was    in    Russia 

itself — from    the    tair    hands    of    your    mother,   the 

Baroness. 

63 


VERA  [Pained} 

Please  don't  say  my  mother,  my  mother  is  dead. 

QUINCY  [Fatuously  misunderstanding] 
Oh,  you  have  no  call  to  be  ashamed  of  your  step- 
mother— she's  a  stunning  creature  ;  all  the  points  of 
a  tip-top  Russian  aristocrat,  or  Quincy  Davenport's 
no  judge  of  breed  !  Doesn't  speak  English  like  your 
father — but  then  the  Baron  is  a  wonder. 

VERA  [Takes  up  teapot] 

Father  once  hoped  to  be  British  Ambassador — that's 
why  I  had  an  English  governess.  But  you  never  told 
me  you  met  him  in  Russia. 

QUINCY 

Surely  !     When  I  gave  you  all  those  love  messages 


VERA  [Pouring  tea  quickly] 

You  said  you  met  him  at  Wiesbaden. 

QUINCY 

Yes,  but  we  grew  such  pals  I  motored  him  and  the 
Baroness  back  to  St.  Petersburg.  Jolly  country, 
Russia — they  know  how  to  live. 

VERA  [Coldly] 

I  saw  more  of  those  who  know  how  to  die.  .  .  .  Milk 

and  sugar  ? 

QUINCY  [Sentimentally] 

Oh,  Miss  Revendal !     Have  you  forgotten  ? 

64 


VERA  [Politely  snubbing] 
How  should  I  remember  ? 

QUINCY 

You  don't  remember  our  first  meeting  ?  At  the 
Settlement  Bazaar  ?  When  I  paid  you  a  hundred 
dollars  for  every  piece  of  sugar  you  put  in  ? 

VERA 

Did  you  ?     Then  I  hope  you  drank  syrup. 

QUINCY 

Ugh !     I  hate  sugar — I  sacrificed  myself. 

VERA 

To  the  Settlement  ?     How  heroic  of  you  ! 

QUINCY 

No,  not  to  the  Settlement.     To  you  ! 

VERA 

Then  I'll  only  put  milk  in. 

QUINCY 

I  hate  milk.     But  from  you 

VERA 

Then  we  must  fall  back  on  the  lemon. 


QUINCY 

I  loathe  lemon.     But  from- 

65 


VERA 

Then  you  shall  have  your  tea  neat. 

QUINCY 

I  detest  tea,  and  here  it  would  be  particularly  cheap 
and  nasty.  But 

VERA 

Then  you  shall  have  a  cake  ! 
[She  offers  plate."] 

QUINCY  [Taking  one] 
Would  they  be  eatable  ? 

[Tasting  it.~\ 
Humph !     Not  bad. 

[Sentimentally] 

A  little  cake  was  all  you  would  eat  the  only  time 
you  came  to  one  of  my  private  concerts.  Don't  you 
remember  ?  We  went  down  to  supper  together. 

VERA  [Taking  his  tea  for  herself  and  putting  in  lemon] 
I  shall  always  remember  the  delicious  music  Herr 
Pappelmeister  gave  us. 

QUINCY 

How  unkind  of  you  ! 

VERA 

Unkind  ? 

[She  sips  the  tea  and  puts  down  the  cup."] 
To  be  grateful  for  the  music  ? 
66 


QUINCY 

You  know  what  I  mean — to  forget  me  ! 
[He  tries  to  take  her  hand.~\ 

VERA  [Rising] 

Aren't  you  forgetting  yourself  ? 

QUINCY 

You  mean  because  I'm  married  to  that  patched-and- 
painted  creature  ?  She's  hankering  for  the  stage 
again,  the  old  witch. 

VERA 

Hush !  Marriages  with  comic  opera  stars  are  not 
usually  domestic  idylls. 

QUINCY 

I  fell  a  victim  to  my  love  of  music. 

VERA  [Murmurs,  smiling] 
Music  ! 

QUiNCY 

And  I  hadn't  yet  met  the  right  breed— the  true  blue 
blood  of  Europe.  I'll  get  a  divorce. 

[Approaching  her] 
Vera! 

VERA  [Retreating] 

You  will  make  me  sorry  I  came  to  you. 

67 


QUINCY 

No,  don't  say  that —  promised  the  Baron  I'd  always 
do  all  I  could  for 

VERA 

You  promised  ?     You  dared  discuss  my  affairs  ? 

QUINCY 

It  was  your  father  began  it.  When  he  found  I  knew 
you,  he  almost  wept  with  emotion.  He  asked  a 
hundred  questions  about  your  life  in  America. 

VERA 

His  life  and  mine  are  for  ever  separate.     He  is  a 

Reactionary,  I  a  Radical. 

QUINCY 

But  he  loves  you  dreadfully — he  can't  understand 
why  you  should  go  slaving  away  summer  and  winter 
in  a  Settlement — you  a  member  of  the  Russian 
nobility ! 

VERA  [With  faint  smile] 

I  might  say,  noblesse  oblige.  But  the  truth  is,  I  earn 
my  living  that  way.  It  would  do  you  good  to  slave 
there  too  ! 

QUINCY  [Eagerly] 

Would  they  chain  us  together  ?     I'd  come  to-morrow. 

[He  moves  nearer  her.     There  is  a  double  knock  at 

the  door.l 
68 


VERA  [Relieved] 
Here's  Pappelmeister  ! 

QUINCY 

Bother  Poppy — why  is  he  so  darned  punctual  ? 
[Enter  KATHLEEN  from  the  kitchen.] 

VERA  [Smiling] 
Ah,  you're  still  here. 

KATHLEEN 

And  why  would  I  not  be  here  ? 
[She  goes  to  open  the  door] 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Mr.  Quixano  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Yes,  come  in. 

[Enter  HERR  PAPPELMEISTER,  a  burly  German  figure 
with  a  leonine  head,  spectacles,  and  a  mane  of 
white  hair — a  figure  that  makes  his  employer  look 
even  coarser.  He  carries  an  umbrella,  which  he 
never  lets  go.  He  is  at  first  grave  and  silent,  which 
makes  any  burst  of  emotion  the  more  striking.  He 
and  QUINCY  DAVENPORT  suggest  a  picture  of 
"  Dignity  and  Impudence"  His  English,  as  roughly 
indicated  in  the  text,  is  extremely  Teutonic] 

QUINCY 

You're  late,  Poppy  ! 

[PAPPELMEISTER  silently  bows  to  VERA.J 
69 


VERA  [Smilingly  goes  and  offers  her  hand.] 
Proud  to  meet  you,  Herr  Pappelmeister  I 

QUINCY 

Excuse  me 

[Introducing] 

Miss  Revendal  ! — I  forgot  you  and  Poppy  hadn't 
been  introduced — curiously  enough  it  was  at  Wies- 
baden I  picked  him  up  too — he  was  conducting  the 
opera — your  folks  were  in  my  box.  I  don't  think  I 
ever  met  anyone  so  mad  on  music  as  the  Baron. 
And  the  Baroness  told  me  he  had  retired  from 
active  service  in  the  Army  because  of  the  torture 
of  listening  to  the  average  military  band.  Ha  ! 
Ha  !  Ha ! 

VERA 

Yes,  my  father  once  hoped  my  music  would  comfort 
him. 

[She  smiles  sadly] 

Poor  father  !  But  a  soldier  must  bear  defeat.  Herr 
Pappelmeister,  may  I  not  give  you  some  tea  ? 

[She  sits  again  at  the  table] 

QUINCY 

Tea  !     Lager's  more  in  Poppy's  Une. 
[He  chuckles] 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Gravely] 
Bitte.     Tea. 

[She  pour-f  out>  he  sits.~\ 
70 


Lemon.     Four  lumps.  .  .  .  Nun,  five  !  ...  Or  six ! 
[She  hands  him  the  cup.] 

Danke. 

[As  he  receives  the  cup,  he  utters  an  exclamation, 
for  KATHLEEN  after  opening  the  door  has  lingered  on, 
hunting  around  everywhere,  and  having  finally 
crawled  under  the  table  has  now  brushed  against 
his  leg.] 

VERA 

What  are  you  looking  for  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Her  head  emerging} 
My  nose  ! 

[They  are  all  startled  and  amused.] 

VERA 

Your  nose  ? 

KATHLEEN 
I  forgot  me  nose  ! 

QUINCY 

Well,    follow   your   nose — and   you'll   find   it.     Ha  ! 

Ha!   Ha! 

KATHLEEN  [Pouncing  on  it] 
Here  it  is ! 

[Picks  it  up  near  the  armchair.] 

OMNES 

Oh! 

71 


KATHLEEN 

Sure,  it's  gotten  all  dirthy. 

[She  takes  out  a  handkerchief  and  wipes  the  nose 
carefully.'] 

QUINCY 

But  why  do  you  want  a  nose  like  that  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Proudly] 
Bekaz  we're  Hebrews ! 

QUINCY 
What! 


KATHLEEN 

It's  our  Carnival  to-day  !     Purim. 

[She  carries  her  nose  carefully  and  piously  toward 

the  kitchen.] 

VERA 
Oh!  I  see. 

[Exit   KATHLEEN.] 

QUINCY  [In  horror] 

Miss  Revendal,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  brought 

me  to  a  Jew  ! 

VERA 

I'm  afraid  I  have      I  was  thinking  only  of  his  genius, 

72 


not  his  race.     And  you  see,  so  many  musicians  are 
Jews. 

QUINCY 

Not  my  musicians.     No  Jew's  harp  in  my  orchestra, 
eh? 

[He  sniggers.] 
I  wouldn't  have  a  Jew  if  he  paid  me. 

VERA 

I  daresay  you  have  some,  all  the  same. 

QUINCY 

Impossible.     Poppy  !     Are  there   any  Jews   in   my 
orchestra  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Removing  the  cup  from  his  mouth 

and  speaking  with  sepulchral  solemnity] 
Do  you  mean  are  dere  any  Christians  ? 

QUINCY  [In  horror] 

Gee-rusalem  !     Perhaps  you're  a  Jew  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Gravely] 

I  haf  not  de  honour.     But,  if  you  brefer,  I  will  gut 

out  from  my  brogrammes  all  de  Chewish  composers. 

Was? 

QUINCY 

Why,  of  course.     Fire  'em  out,  every  mother's  son 

of  'em. 

73 


PAPPELMEISTER  [Unsmiling} 
Also — no  more  comic  operas ! 

QUINCY 
What !  ! ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Dey  write  all  de  comic  operas  ! 

QUINCY 

Brute  ! 

[PAPPELM BISTER'S  chuckle  is  heard  gurgling  in  his 
cup.     Re-enter  MENDEL  from  kitchen.~\ 

MENDEL  [To  VERA] 

I'm  so  sorry — I  can't  get  him  to  come  in — he's  terrible 

shy. 

QUINCY 

Won't  face  the  music,  eh  ? 
[He  sniggers} 

VERA 

Did  you  tell  him  /  was  here  ? 

MENDEL 
Of  course. 

VERA  [Disappointed] 
Oh! 

MENDEL 

But  I've  persuaded  him  to  let  me  show  his  MS. 

74 


VERA  [With  forced  satisfaction] 
Oh,  well,  that's  all  we  want. 

[MENDEL  goes  to  the  desk,  opens  it,  and  gets  the  MS. 

and  offers  it  to  QUINCY  DAVENPORT.] 

QUINCY 

Not  for  me — Poppy  ! 

[MENDEL  offers  it  to  PAPPELMEISTER,  who  takes  it 
solemnly, .] 

MENDEL  [Anxiously  to  PAPPELMEISTER] 

Of  course   you   must   remember   his   youth   and  his 

lack  of  musical  education 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Bitte,  das  Pult ! 

[MENDEL  moves  DAVID'S  music-stand  from  the  corner 
to  the  centre  of  the  room.  PAPPELMEISTER  'puts 
MS.  on  it.} 

So/ 

[All  eyes  centre  on  him  eagerly,  MENDEL  standing 
uneasily,  the  others  sitting.  PAPPELMEISTER  'polishes 
his  glasses  with  irritating  elaborateness  and  weary 
"  achs"  then  reads  in  absolute  silence.  A  pause.] 

QUINCY  [Bored  by  toe  silence] 
But  won't  you  play  it  to  us  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Blay  it  ?     Am  I  an  orchestra  ?     I  blay  it  in  my  brain. 
[He  goes  on  reading,  his  brow  gets  wrinkled.     He 
75 


ruffles    his    hair    unconsciously.     All    watch    him 
anxiously — he  turns  the  page.] 
So! 

VERA  [Anxiously] 

You  don't  seem  to  like  it ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

I  do  not  comprehend  it. 

MENDEL 

I  knew  it  was  crazy — it  is  supposed  to  be  about 
America  or  a  Crucible  or  something.  And  of  course 
there  are  heaps  of  mistakes. 

VERA 

That  is  why  I  am  suggesting  to  Mr.  Davenport  to 

send  him  to  Germany. 

QUINCY 

I'll  send  as  many  Jews  as  you  like  to  Germany.  Ha  ! 
Ha!  Ha! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Absorbed,  turning  pages} 
Ach  !—ach  !—So  ! 

QUINCY 

I'd  even  lend  my  own  yacht  to  take  'em  back.  Ha  ! 
Ha!  Ha! 

VERA 

Sh  !     We're  disturbing  Herr  Pappelmeister. 

76 


QUINCY 

Oh,  Poppy's  all  right. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Sublimely  unconscious] 

Ach  so — so — SO  /     Das  ist  etwas  neues  ! 

[His  umbrella  begins  to  beat  time,  moving  more 
and  more  vigorously,  till  at  last  he  is  conducting 
elaborately,  stretching  out  his  left  palm  for  pianissimo 
passages,  and  raising  it  vigorously  for  forte,  with 
every  now  and  then  an  exclamation.] 

Wunderschon  /  .  .  .  pianissimo  ! — now  the  flutes  ! 

Clarinets !     Ach,  ergb'tzlich  .  .  .  bassoons  and  drums ! 

.  .  .  Fortissimo  /  .  .  .  Kolossal !     Kolossal ! 
[Conducting  in  a  fury  of  enthusiasm.] 

VERA  [Clapping  her  hands] 
Bravo  !   Bravo  !     I'm  so  excited  ! 

QUINCY  [Tawning} 
Then  it  isn't  bad,  Poppy  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Not  listening,   never   ceasing   to 

conduct] 

Und   de   harp    solo  .  .  .  ach,    reizend  /  .  .  .  Second 
violins ! 

QUINCY 

But  Poppy  !     We  can't  be  here  all  day. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Not  listening,  continuing  panto- 
mime action] 
Sh!   Sh!     Piano. 
77 


QUINCY  [Outraged] 
Sh  to  me  ! 
[Rises.'} 

VERA 

He  doesn't  know  it's  you. 


QUINCY 

But  look  here,  Poppy- 


[He  seizes  the  wildly-moving  umbrella.  Blank 
stare  of  PAPPELMEISTER  gradually  returning  to 
consciousness.] 

PAPPELMEISTER 
Was  giebfs  .  .  .? 

QUINCY 

We've  had  enough. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Indignant] 

Enough  ?     Enough  ?     Of  such  a  beaudiful  symphony  ? 

QUINCY 

It  may  be  beautiful  to  you,  but  to  us  it's  damn  dull. 
See  here,  Poppy,  if  you're  satisfied  that  the  young 
fellow  has  sufficient  talent  to  be  sent  to  study  in 
Germany 

PAPPELMEISTER 

In  Germany  !     Germany  has  nodings  to  teach  him, 

he  has  to  teach  Germany. 

78 


VERA 
Bravo  ! 

[She  springs  up."] 

MENDEL 

I  always  said  he  was  a  genius  ! 

QUINCY 

Well,  at  that  rate  you  could  put  this  stuff  of  his  in 
one  of  my  programmes.     Sinfonia  Americana^  eh  ? 

VERA 

Oh,  that  is  good  of  you 

PAPPELMEISTER 

I  should  be  broud  to  indroduce  it  to  de  vorld. 

VERA 

And  will  it  be  played  in  that  wonderful  marble  music- 
room  overlooking  the  Hudson  ? 

QUINCY 

Sure.     Before  five  hundred  of  the  smartest  folk  in 
America. 

MENDEL 

Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you.     That  will  mean  fame  ! 

QUINCY 

And  dollars.     Don't  forget  the  dollars. 
79 


MENDEL 

I'll  run  and  tell  him. 

[He   hastens   into   the   kitchen,   PAPPELMEISTER   is 
re-absorbed  in  the  MS.,  but  no  longer  conducting.'] 

QUINCY 

You  see,  I'll  help  even  a  Jew  for  your  sake. 

VERA 
Hush! 

[Indicating  PAPPELMEISTER.] 

QUINCY 

Oh,  Poppy's  in  the  moon. 

VERA 

You  must  help  him  for  his  own  sake,  for  art's  sake. 

QUINCY 

And  why  not  for  heart's  sake — for  my  sake  ? 
[He  comes  nearer.~\ 

VERA  [Crossing  to  PAPPELMEISTER] 

Herr  Pappelmeister  !     When  do  you  think  you  can 

produce  it  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 
Wunderbar  /  .  .  . 

[Becoming  half -conscious  O/~VERA] 
Four  lumps.  .  .  . 

[Waking  up] 
Bitte  ? 
80 


VERA 

How  soon  can  you  produce  it  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

How  soon  can  he  finish  it  ? 

VERA 

Isn't  it  finished  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

I  see  von  Finale  scratched  out  and  anoder  not  quite 
completed.  But  anyhow,  ve  couldn't  broduce  it 
before  Saturday  fortnight. 

QUINCY 

Saturday  fortnight  !     Not  time  to  get  my  crowd. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Den  ve  say  Saturday  dree  veeks.     Yes  ? 

QUINCY 

Yes.     Stop    a    minute !     Did    you    say    Saturday  ? 

That's  my  comic  opera  night  !     You  thief ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Somedings  must  be  sagrificed. 

MENDEL  [Outside] 

But  you  must  come,  David. 

[The  kitchen  door  o-pens,  and  MENDEL  drags  in  the 
boyishly  shrinking  DAVID.     PAPPELMEISTER  thumps 

81  F 


with  his  umbrella,  VERA  claps  her  hands.,  QUINCY 
DAVENPORT  produces  his  eyeglass  and  surveys  DAVID 
curiously.] 

VERA 

Oh,  Mr.  Quixano,  I  am  so  glad  !  Mr.  Davenport  is 
going  to  produce  your  symphony  in  his  wonderful 
music-room. 

QUINCY 

Yes,  young  man,  I'm  going  to  give  you  the  smartest 
audience  in  America.  And  if  Poppy  is  right,  you're 
just  going  to  rake  in  the  dollars.  America  wants  a 
composer. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Raises  hands  emphatically.} 
Ach  Gott,  ja  ! 

VERA  [To  DAVID] 

Why  don't  you  speak  ?     You're  not  angry  with  me 

for  interfering ? 

DAVID 

I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  you 

VERA 

Oh,  not  to  me.     It  is  to  Mr.  Davenport  you 


DAVID 

And  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  Herr  Pappel- 
meister.     It  is  an  honour  even  to  meet  him. 

[Bows.~\ 
82 


PAPPELMEISTER  [Choking  with  emotion,  goes  anu, 

pats  him  on  the  back.~\ 
Mein  braver  Junge  ! 

VERA  [Anxiously] 

But  it  is  Mr.  Davenport 

DAVID 

Before  I  accept  Mr.  Davenport's  kindness,  I  must 
know  to  whom  I  am  indebted — and  if  Mr.  Davenport 
is  the  man  who 

QUINCY 

Who  travelled  with  you  to  New  York  ?  Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Ha  !  No,  Pm  only  the  junior. 

DAVID 

Oh,  I  know,  sir,  you  don't  make  the  money  you  spend, 

QUINCY 

Eh? 

VERA  [Anxiously] 

He  means  he  knows  you're  not  in  business. 

DAVID 

Yes,  sir  ;   but  is  it  true  you  are  in  pleasure  ? 

QUINCY  [Puzzled} 
I  beg  your  pardon  ? 
83 


DAVID 

Are  all  the  stories  the  papers  print  about  you  true  ? 

QUINCY 

All  the  stories.     That's  a  tall  order.     Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha  ! 

DAVID 

Well,  anyhow,  is  it  true  that ? 

VERA 

Mr.  Quixano  !     What  are  you  driving  at  ? 

QUINCY 

Oh,  it's  rather  fun  to  hear  what  the  masses  read 
about  me.  Fire  ahead.  Is  what  true  ? 

DAVID 

That  you  were  married  in  a  balloon  ? 

QUINCY 

Ho !  Ha !  Ha !  That's  true  enough.  Marriage 
in  high  life,  they  said,  didn't  they  ?  Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Ha! 

DAVID 

And  is  it  true  you  live  in  America  only  two  months 
in  the  year,  and  then  only  to  entertain  Europeans  who 
wander  to  these  wild  parts  ? 

QUINCY 

Lucky  for  you,  young  man.     You'll  have  an  Italian 
prince  and  a  British  duke  to  hear  your  scribblings. 
84 


DAVID 

And  the  palace  where  they  will  hear  my  scribblings — 
is  it  true  that ? 

VERA  \Who  has  been  on  -pins  and  needles] 
Mr.  Quixano,  what  possible ? 

DAVID  \Entreatingly  holds  up  a  band] 
Miss  Revendal ! 

[To  QUINCY  DAVENPORT] 

Is  this  palace  the  same  whose  grounds  were  turned 
into  Venetian  canals  where  the  guests  ate  in  gondolas — 
gondolas  that  were  draped  with  the  most  wonderful 
trailing  silks  in  imitation  of  the  Venetian  nobility  in 
the  great  water  fetes  ? 

QUINCY  [Turns  to  VERA] 

Ah,  Miss  Revendal — what  a  pity  you  refused  that 
invitation  !  It  was  a  fairy  scene  of  twinkling  lights 
and  delicious  darkness — each  couple  had  their  own 
gondola  to  sup  in,  and  their  own  side-canal  to  slip 
down.  Eh?  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

DAVID 

And  the  same  night,  women  and  children  died  of 
hunger  in  New  York ! 

QUINCY  [Startled,  drops  eyeglass.] 
Eh? 

DAVID  [Furiously] 

And  this  is  the  sort  of  people  you  would  invite  to  hear 

my  symphony — these  gondola-guzzlers  ! 

85 


VERA 

Mr.  Quixano  i 

MENDEL 

David  ! 

DAVID 

These  magnificent  animals  who  went  into  the  gondolas 
two  by  two,  to  feed  and  flirt  ! 

QUINCY  [Dazed] 

Sir! 

DAVID 

I  should  be  a  new  freak  for  you  for  a  new  freak  evening 
—I  and  my  dreams  and  my  music  ! 

QUINCY 

You  low-down,  ungrateful 


DAVID 

Not  for  you  and  such  as  you  have  I  sat  here  writing  and 
dreaming ;    not  for  you  who  are  killing  my  America ! 

QUINCY 

Tour  America,  forsooth,  you  Jew-immigrant  ! 

VERA 

Mr.  Davenport ! 

DAVID 

Yes — Jew-immigr.  nt  !     But   a  Jew  who  knows   that 
86 


your  Pilgrim  Fathers  came  straight  out  of  his  Old 
Testament,  and  that  our  Jew-immigrants  are  a  greater 
factor  in  the  glory  of  this  great  commonwealth  than 
some  of  you  sons  of  the  soil.  It  is  you,  freak-fashion- 
ables, who  are  undoing  the  work  of  Washington  and 
Lincoln,  vulgarising  your  high  heritage,  and  turning 
the  last  and  noblest  hope  of  humanity  into  a  cari- 
cature. 

QUINCY  [Rocking  with  laughter] 
Ha!   Ha!   Ha!     Ho !   Ho  !   Ho ! 

[To    VERA.] 

You  never  told  me  your  Jew-scribbler  was  a  socialist  ! 

DAVID 

I  am  nothing  but  a  simple  artist,  but  I  come  from 
Europe,  one  of  her  victims,  and  I  know  that  she  is  a 
failure  ;  that  her  palaces  and  peerages  are  outworn  toys 
of  the  human  spirit,  and  that  the  only  hope  of  man- 
kind lies  in  a  new  world.  And  here — in  the  land  of 
to-morrow — you  are  trying  to  bring  back  Europe 

QUINCY  [Interjecting] 
I  wish  we  could  ! 

DAVID 

Europe  with  her  comic-opera  coronets  and  her  worm- 
eaten  stage  decorations,  and  her  pomp  and  chivalry 
built  on  a  morass  of  crime  and  misery 

QUINCY  [With  sneering  laugh] 

Morass ! 

87 


DAVID  [With  prophetic  passion] 
But  you  shall  not  kill  my  dream  !     There  shall  come 
a  fire  round  the  Crucible  that  will  melt  you  and  your 
breed  like  wax  in  a  blowpipe 

QUINCY  [Furiously,  with  clenched  fisi\ 
You 

DAVID 

America  shall  make  good  .  .  .  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Who  has  sat  down  and  remained 
imperturbably  seated  throughout  all  this  scene,  springs 
up  and  waves  his  umbrella  hysterically] 

Hoch  Quixano  !  Hoch  !  Hoch  !  Es  lebe  Quixano  !  Hoch I 

QUINCY 

Poppy  !     You're  dismissed  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Goes  to  DAVID  with  outstretched 

hand] 

Danke. 

[They  grip  hands.     PAPPELMEISTER  turns  to  QUINCY 

DAVENPORT.] 

Comic  Opera  !     Ouf  ! 

QUINCY  [Goes  to  street-door,  at  white  heat.] 
Are  you  coming,  Miss  Revendal  ? 
[He  opens  the  doorJ] 

VERA  [To  QUINCY,  but  not  moving] 

Pray,  pray,  accept  my  apologies — believe  me,  if  I  had 

known 


QUINCY  [Furiously] 
Then  stop  with  your  Jew  ! 
[Exit,] 

MENDEL  [Frantically] 

But,  Mr.  Davenport — don't  go  !     He  is  only  a  boy. 

[Exit  after  QUINCY  DAVENPORT.] 
You  must  consider 

DAVID 

Oh,  Herr  Pappelmeister,  you  have  lost  your  place  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  saved  my  soul.     Dollars  are  de  devil.     Now  I 
must  to  an  appointment.     Auf  baldiges  Wiedersehen. 

[He  shakes  DAVID'S  hand.] 
Fraulein  Revendal ! 

[He  takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it.     Exit.     DAVID 
and  VERA  stand  gazing  at  each  other] 

VERA 

What  have  you  done  ?     What  have  you  done  ? 

DAVID 

What  else  could  I  do  ? 

VERA 

I  hate  the  smart  set  as  much  as  you — but  as  your  ladder 
and  your  trumpet 

DAVID 

I  would  not  stand  indebted  to  them.     I  know  you 
89 


meant  it  for  my  good,  but  what  would  these  Europe- 
apers  have  understood  of  my  America — the  America 
of  my  music  ?  They  look  back  on  Europe  as  a  pleasure 
ground,  a  palace  of  art — but  I  know 

[Getting  hysterical  ] 
it  is  sodden  with  blood,  red  with  bestial  massacres 

VERA  [Alarmed,  anxious j 
Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it. 
[She  holds  out  her  hand.~\ 
Good-bye. 

DAVID  [Frozen,  taking  it,  holding  it] 

Ah,  you  are  offended  by  my  ingratitude — I  shall  never 

see  you  again. 

VERA 

No,  I  am  not  offended.     But  I  have  failed  to  help 
you.     We  have  nothing  else  to  meet  for. 
[She  disengages  her  hand.~\ 

DAVID 

Why  will  you   punish  me  so  ?      I    have   only  hurt 

myself. 

VERA 

It  is  not  a  'punishment. 

DAVID 

What  else  ?     When  you  are  with  me,  all  the  air  seems 
to  tremble  with  fairy  music  played  by  some  unseen 
fairy  orchestra. 
90 


VERA  [Tremulous] 

And  yet  you  wouldn't  come  in  just  now  when  I 

DAVID 

I  was  too  frightened  of  the  others  .  .  . 

VERA  [Smiling] 
Frightened  indeed  ! 

DAVID 

Yes,  I  know  I  became  overbold — but  to  take  all  that 
magic  sweetness  out  of  my  life  for  ever — you  don't 
call  that  a  punishment  ? 

VERA  [Slushing] 

How  could  I  wish  to  punish  you  ?     I  was  proud  of 

you  ! 

[Drops  her  eyes,  murmurs'] 
Besides  it  would  be  punishing  myself. 

DAVID  [In  passionate  amaze] 

Miss  Revendal !  .  .  .  But  no,  it  cannot  be.     It  is  too 

impossible. 

VERA  [Frightened] 
Yes,  too  impossible.     Good-bye. 
[She  turns.] 

DAVID 

But  not  for  always  ? 

[VERA   hangs  her   head.     He   comes  nearer.     Pas- 
sionately] 


Promise  me  that  you — that  I 

[He  takes  her  hand  again.~\ 

VERA  [Melting  at  his  touch,  breathes] 
Yes,  yes,  David. 

DAVID 

Miss  Revendal ! 

[She falls  into  his  arms.] 

VERA 

My  dear  !   my  dear  ! 

DAVID 

It  is  a  dream.     You  cannot  care  for  me — you  so  far 
above  me. 

VERA 

Above  you,  you  simple  boy  ?     Your  genius  lifts  you 
to  the  stars. 

DAVID 

No,  no  ;  it  is  you  who  lift  me  there 

VERA  [Smoothing  his  hair] 

Oh,  David.     And  to  think  that  I  was  brought  up  to 

despise  your  race. 

DAVID  [Sadly] 
Yes,  all  Russians  are. 
92 


VERA 

But  we  of  the  nobility  in  particular. 

DAVID  [Amazed,  half -releasing  her] 
You  are  noble  ? 

VERA 

My  father  is  Baron  Revendal,  but  I  have  long  since 
carved  out  a  life  of  my  own. 

DAVID 

Then  he  will  not  separate  us  ? 

VERA 

No. 

[Re-embracing  him.] 
Nothing  can  separate  us. 

[A  knock  at  the  street-door.     They  separate.     Ike 

automobile  is  heard,  clattering  off.] 

DAVID 

It  is  my  uncle  coming  back. 

VERA  [In  low,  tense  tones] 

Then  I  shall  slip  out.     I  could  not  bear  a  third.     I 

will  write. 

[She  goes  to  the  door.~\ 

DAVID 

Yes,  yes  .  .  .  Vera. 

[He  follows  her  to  the  door.     He  opens  it  and  she 

slips  out.~\ 
93 


MENDEL  {Half-seen  at  the  door,  ex-postulating] 
You,  too,  Miss  Revendal  -  ? 

[Re-enters] 
Oh,  David,  you  have  driven  away  all  your  friends. 

DAVID  [Going  to  window  and  looking  after  VERA] 
Not  all,  uncle.     Not  all. 

[He  throws  his  arms  boyishly  round  his  uncle] 
I  am  so  happy. 

MENDEL 

Happy  ? 

DAVID 

She  loves  me  —  Vera  loves  me. 

MENDEL 

Vera  ? 

DAVID 

Miss  Revendal. 

MENDEL 

Have  you  lost  your  wits  ? 
[He  throws  DAVID  off.] 


DAVID 

I   don't  wonder  you're  amazed.     Maybe  you  think 
7  wasn't.     It  is  as  if  an  angel  should  stoop  down  - 

MENDEL  [Hoarsely] 

This  is  true  ?     This  is  not  some  stupid  Purim  joke  ? 

94 


DAVID 

True  and  sacred  as  the  sunrise. 

MENDEL 

But  you  are  a  Jew  ! 

DAVID 

Yes,  and  just  think !  She  was  bred  up  to  despise 
Jews — her  father  was  a  Russian  baron 

MENDEL 

If  she  was  the  daughter  of  fifty  barons,  you  cannot 
marry  her. 

DAVID  [In  pained  amaze] 
Uncle  ! 

[Slowly] 

Then  your  hankering  after  the  synagogue  was  serious 
after  all. 

MENDEL 

It  is  not  so  much  the  synagogue — it  is  the  call  of 
our  blood  through  immemorial  generations. 

DAVID 

Ton  say  that  !  You  who  have  come  to  the  heart  of 
the  Crucible,  where  the  roaring  fires  of  God  are  fusing 
our  race  with  all  the  others. 

MENDEL  [Passionately] 

Not  our  race,  not  your  race  and  mine. 

95 


DAVID 

What  immunity  has  our  race  ? 
[Meditatively} 

The  pride  and  the  prejudice,  the  dreams  and  the 
sacrifices,  the  traditions  and  the  superstitions,  the 
fasts  and  the  feasts,  things  noble  and  things  sordid — 
they  must  all  into  the  Crucible. 

MENDEL  [With  prophetic  fury] 

The  Jew  has  been  tried  'i  a  thousand  fires  and  only 

tempered  and  annealed. 

DAVID 

Fires  of  hate,  not  fires  of  love.     That  is  what  melts. 

MENDEL  [Sneeringly] 
So  I  see. 

DAVID 

Your  sneer  is  false.  The  love  that  melted  me  was 
not  Vera's — it  was  the  love  America  showed  me — the 
day  she  gathered  me  to  her  breast. 

MENDEL  [Speaking  passionately  and  rapidly] 
Many  countries  have  gathered  us.     Holland  took  us 
when  we  were  driven  from  Spain — but  we  did  not 
become  Dutchmen.     Turkey  took  us  when  Germany 
oppressed  us,  but  we  have  not  become  Turks. 

DAVID 

These  countries  were  not  in  the  making.  They  were 
96 


old  civilisations  stamped  with  the  seal  of  creed.  In 
such  countries  the  Jew  may  be  right  to  stand  out. 
But  here  in  this  new  secular  Republic  we  must  look 
forward 

MENDEL  [Passionately  interrupting 
We  must  look  backwards,  too. 

DAVID  [Hysterically] 
To  what  ?     To  Kishineff  ? 
[As  if  seeing  his  vision] 

To  that  butcher's  face  directing  the  slaughter  ?  To 
those ? 

MENDEL  [Alarmed] 
Hush  !     Calm  yourself  ! 

DAVID  [Struggling  with  himself] 
Yes,  I  will  calm  myself — but  how  else  shall  I  calm 
myself  save  by  forgetting  all  that  nightmare  of  religions 
and  races,  save  by  holding  out  my  hands  with  prayer 
and  music  toward  the  Republic  of  Man  and  the 
Kingdom  of  God  !  The  Past  I  cannot  mend — its 
evil  outlines  are  stamped  in  immortal  rigidity.  Take 
away  the  hope  that  I  can  mend  the  Future,  and  you 
make  me  mad. 

MENDEL 

You  are  mad  already — your  dreams  are  mad — the  Jew 
is  hated  here  as  everywhere — you  are  false  to  your 
race. 

97  o 


DAVID 

I  keep  faith  with  America.  I  have  faith  America  will 
keep  faith  with  us. 

[He  raises  his  hands  in  religious  rapture  toward 

the  flag  over  the  doorJ] 

Flag  of  our  great  Republic,  guardian  of  our  homes, 
whose  stars  and 

MENDEL 

Spare  me  that  rigmarole.     Go  out  and  marry  your 

Gentile  and  be  happy. 

DAVID 

You  turn  me  out  ? 

MENDEL 

Would  you  stay  and  break  my  mother's  heart  ?  You 
know  she  would  mourn  for  you  with  the  rending  of 
garments  and  the  seven  days'  sitting  on  the  floor. 
Go  !  You  have  cast  off  the  God  of  our  fathers ! 

DAVID  [Thundrously] 

And  the  God  of  our  children — does  He  demand  no 

service  ? 

[Quieter,  coming  toward  his  uncle  and  touching  him 

affectionately  on  the  shoulder.~\ 
You  are  right — I  do  need  a  wider  world. 

[Expands  his  lungs."] 
I  must  go  away. 

MENDEL 

Go,  then — I'll  hide  the  truth — she  must  never  suspect 

— lest  she  mourn  you  as  dead. 

98 


FRAU  QUIXANO  [Outside,  in  the  kitchen] 
Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

[Both  men  turn  toward  the  kitchen  and  listen.] 

KATHLEEN 

Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

FRAU  QUIXANO  AND  KATHLEEN 

Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

MENDEL  [Bitterly] 

A  merry  Purim  ! 

[The  kitchen  door  opens  and  remains  ajar.  FRAU 
QUIXANO  rushes  in,  carrying  DAVID'S  violin  and  bow. 
KATHLEEN  looks  in,  grinning.] 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Hilariously] 
Nu  spiel  noch  !   spiel ! 

[She  holds  the  violin  and  bow  appealingly  toward 

DAVID.] 

MENDEL  [Putting  out  a  protesting  hand] 
No,  no,  David — I  couldn't  bear  it. 

DAVID 

But  I  mu.t  !     You  said  she  mustn't  suspect. 

[He  looks  lovingly  at  her  as  he  loudly  utters  these 

words,  which  are  unintelligible  to  her.] 
And  it  may  be  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  play  for  her. 

[Changing  to  a  mock  merry  smile  as  he  takes  the 

violin  and  bow  from  her] 
Gewiss,  Granny  / 

[He  starts  the  same  old  Slavic  dance.] 
99 


FRAU  QUIXANO  [Childishly  pleased] 
He!    He!   He! 

[She  claps  on  a  false  grotesque  nose  from  her  pocket.] 

DAVID  [Torn  between  laughter  and  tears'] 
Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

MENDEL  [Shocked] 
Mutter  ! 

FRAU  QUIXANO 

t/w'  du  auch  ! 

[She  claps  another  false  nose  on  MENDEL,  laughing 
in  childish  glee  at  the  effect.  Then  she  starts 
dancing  to  the  music,  and  KATHLEEN  slips  in  and 
joyously  dances  beside  her.~\ 

DAVID  [Joining  tearfully  in  the  laughter] 

Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 

[The  curtain  falls  quickly.  It  rises  again  upon  the 
picture  of  FRAU  QUIXANO  fallen  back  into  a  chair, 
exhausted  with  laughter,  fanning  herself  with  her 
apron,  while  KATHLEEN  has  dropped  breathless  across 
the  arm  of  the  armchair  ;  DAVID  is  still  playing  on, 
and  MENDEL,  his  false  nose  torn  off,  stands  by,  glower- 
ing. The  curtain  falls  again  and  rises  upon  a  final 
tableau  of  DAVID  in  his  cloak  and  hat,  stealing  out 
of  the  door  with  his  violin,  casting  a  sad  farewell 
glance  at  the  old  woman  and  at  the  home  which  has 
sheltered  him.~\ 


loo 


Act  III 

April,  about  a  month  later.  The  scene  changes  to  MISS 
REVENDAL'S  sitting-room  at  the  Settlement  House 
on  a  sunny  day.  Simple,  pretty  furniture  :  a  sofa, 
chairs,  small  table,  etc.  An  open  piano  with  music. 
Flowers  and  books  about.  Fine  art  reproductions 
on  walls.  The  fireplace  is  on  the  left.  A  door  on 
the  left  leads  to  the  hall,  and  a  door  on  the  right  to 
the  interior.  A  servant  enters  from  the  left,  ushering 
in  BARON  and  BARONESS  REVENDAL  and  QUINCY 
DAVENPORT.  The  BARON  is  a  tall,  stern,  grizzled 
man  of  military  bearing,  with  a  narrow,  fanatical 
forehead  and  martinet  manners,  hut  otherwise  of 
honest  and  distinguished  appearance,  with  a  short, 
well-trimmed  white  beard  and  well-cut  European 
clothes.  Although  his  dignity  is  diminished  by  the 
constant  nervous  suspiciousness  of  the  Russian  official, 
it  is  never  lost ;  his  nervousness,  despite  its  comic 
side,  being  visibly  the  tragic  shadow  of  his  position. 
His  English  has  only  a  touch  of  the  foreign  in  accent 
and  vocabulary  and  is  much  superior  to  his  wife'' s, 
which  comes  to  her  through  her  French.  The 
BARONESS  is  pretty  and  dressed  in  red  in  the 
height  of  Paris  fashion,  hut  blazes  with  bar- 
baric jewels  at  neck  and  throat  and  wrist.  She 
gestures  freely  with  her  hand,  which,  when  un- 
gloved, glitters  with  heavy  rings.  She  is  much 
younger  than  the  BARON  and  self-consciously  fas- 
cinating. Her  parasol,  which  matches  her  costume, 
suggests  the  sunshine  without.  QUINCY  DAVENPORT 
is  in  a  smart  spring  suit  with  a  motor  dust-coat 

101 


and  cap,  which  last  he  lays  down  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

SERVANT 

Miss  Revendal  is  on  the  roof-garden.  I'll  go  and  tell 
her. 

[Exit,  toward  the  hall.] 

BARON 

A  marvellous  people,  you  Americans.  Gardens  in  the 
sky  ! 

QUINCY 

Gardens,  forsooth !  We  plant  a  tub  and  call  it 
Paradise.  No,  Baron.  New  York  is  the  great  stone 
desert. 

BARONESS 

But  ze  big  beautiful  Park  vere  ve  drove  tru  ? 

QUINCY 

No  taste,  Baroness,  modern  sculpture  and  menageries ! 
Think  of  the  Medici  gardens  at  Rome. 

BARONESS 

Ah,  Rome  ! 

\With  an  ecstatic  sigh,  she  drops  into  an  armchair. 
Then  she  takes  out  a  dainty  cigarette-case,  -pulls  off 
her  right-hand  glove,  exhibiting  her  rings,  and 
chooses  a  cigarette.  The  BARON,  seeing  this,  -pro- 
duces his  match-box.^ 

102 


QUINCY 

And  now,  dear  Baron  Revendal,  having  brought  you 
safely  to  the  den  of  the  lioness — if  I  may  venture  to 
call  your  daughter  so — I  must  leave  you  to  do  the 
taming,  eh  ? 

BARON 

You  are  always  of  the  most  amiable. 
[He  strikes  a  match.] 

BARONESS 

Tout  d  fait  charmant. 

[The  BARON  lights  her  cigarette.'] 

QUINCY  [Bows  gallantly] 

Don't  mention  it.     I'll  just  have  my  auto  take  me  to 

the  Club,  and  then  I'll  send  it  back  for  you. 

BARONESS 

Ah,  zank  you — zat  street-car  looks  horreeble. 
[She  -puffs  out  smoke.] 

BARON 

Quite  impossible.  What  is  to  prevent  an  anarchist 
sitting  next  to  you  and  shooting  out  your  brains  ? 

QUINCY 

We  haven't  much  of  that  here — I  don't  mean  brains. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

BARON 

But  I  saw  desperadoes  spying  as  we  came  off  your  yacht. 
103 


QUINCY 

Oh,  that  was  newspaper  chaps. 

BARON  [Shakes  his  head] 

No — they  are  circulating  my  appearance  to  all  the 

gang  in  the  States.     They  took  snapshots. 

QUINCY 

Then  you're  quite  safe  from  recognition. 

[He  sniggers.] 
Didn't  they  ask  you  questions  ? 

BARON 

Yes,  but  I  am  a  diplomat.     I  do  not  reply. 

QUINCY 

That's  not  very  diplomatic  here.     Ha  !    Ha  ! 

BARON 

Diable  ! 

[He  claps  his  hand  to  his  hip  pocket,  half -producing 
a  pistol.     The  BARONESS  looks  equally  anxious.] 

QUINCY 

What's  up  ? 

BARON  [Points  to  window,  whispers  hoarsely] 
Regard  !     A  hooligan  peeped  in  ! 

QUINCY  [Goes  to  window] 

Only  some  poor  devil  come  to  the  Settlement. 

104 


BARON  [Hoarsely] 

But  under  his  arm — a  bomb  ! 

QUINCY  [Shaking  his  head  smilingly] 
A  soup  bowl. 

BARONESS 
Ha!   Ha!  Ha! 

QUINCY 

What  makes  you  so  nervous,  Baron  ? 

[The  BARON  slips  back  his  pistol,  a  little  ashamed.] 

BARONESS 

Ze  Intellectuals  and  ze  Bund,  zey  all  hate  my  husband 

because  he  is  faizful  to  Christ 

[Crossing  herself] 
and  ze  Tsar. 

QUINCY 

But  the  Intellectuals  are  in  Russia. 

BARON 

They   have   their    branches    here — the    refugees    are 

the  leaders — it  is  a  diabolical  network. 

QUINCY 

Well,   anyhow,   wire  not   in   Russia,   eh  ?     No,   no, 
Baron,   you're   quite   safe.     Still,   you   can  keep   my 
automobile  as  long  as  you  like — I've  plenty. 
105 


BARON 

A  thousand  thanks. 

[Wiping  his  forehead."] 

But  surely  no  gentleman  would  sit  in  the  public  car, 
squeezed  between  working-men  and  shop-girls,  not 
to  say  Jews  and  Blacks. 

QUINCY 

It  is  done  here.  But  we  shall  change  all  that.  Already 
we  have  a  few  taxi-cabs.  Give  us  time,  my  dear 
Baron,  give  us  time.  You  mustn't  judge  us  by  your 
European  standard. 

BARON 

By  the  European  standard,  Mr.  Davenport,  you  put 
our  hospitality  to  the  shame.  From  the  moment  you 
sent  your  yacht  for  us  to  Odessa 

QUINCY 

Pray,  don't  ever  speak  of  that  again — you  know  how 
anxious  I  was  to  get  you  to  New  York. 

BARON 

Provided  we  have  arrived  in  time ! 

QUINCY 

That's  all  right,  I  keep  telling  you.  They  aren't 
married  yet 

BARON  [Grinding  his  teeth  and  shaking  his  fisi\ 
Those  Jew-vermin — all  my  life  I  have  suffered  from 
them  ! 
106 


QUINCY 

We  all  suffer  from  them. 

BARONESS 

Zey  are  ze  pests  of  ze  civilisation. 

BARON 

But  this  supreme  insult  Vera  shall  not  put  on  the 
blood  of  the  Revendals — not  if  I  have  to  shoot  her 
down  with  my  own  hand — and  myself  after  ! 

QUINCY 

No,  no,  Baron,  that's  not  done  here.  Besides,  if  you 
shoot  her  down,  where  do  /  come  in,  eh  ? 

BARON  [Puzzled] 
Where  you  come  in  ? 

QUINCY 

Oh,  Baron  !     Surely  you  have  guessed  that  it  is  not 
merely  Jew-hate,  but — er — Christian  love.     Eh  ? 
[Laughing  uneasily.'] 

BARON 

You! 

BARONESS  [Clapping  her  hands] 

Oh,  charmant,  charmant !    But  it  ees  a  romance  ! 

BARON 

But  you  are  married  ! 
107 


BARONESS  [Downcast] 

Ah,  oui.     Quel  dommage^  vat  a  peety  ! 

QUTNCY 

You  forget.  Baron,  we  are  in  America.     The  law  giveth 
and  the  law  taketh  away. 
\He  sniggers.] 

BARONESS 

It  ees  a  vonderful  country  !     But  your  vife — hein  ?— 

vould  she  consent  ? 

QUINCY 

She's  mad  to  get  back  on  the  stage — I'll  run  a  theatre 
for  her.  It's  your  daughter's  consent  that's  the  real 
trouble — she  won't  see  me  because  I  lost  my  temper 
and  told  her  to  stop  with  her  Jew.  So  I  look  to  you 
to  straighten  things  out. 

BARONESS 

Mais  parfaitement. 

BARON  [Frowning  at  her] 

You  go  too  quick,  Katusha.  What  influence  have  I 
on  Vera  ?  And  you  she  has  never  even  seen  !  To 
kick  out  the  Jew-beast  is  one  thing.  .  .  . 

QUINCY 

Well,  anyhow,  don't  shoot  her — shoot  the  beast  rather. 

[Snigger ingly.] 
108 


BARON 

Shooting  is  too  good  for  the  enemies  of  Christ. 

[Crossing  himself.'] 
At  Kishineff  we  stick  the  swine. 

QUINCY  [Interested] 

Ah  !     I  read  about  that.     Did  you  see  the  massacre  ? 

BARON 

Which  one  ?     Give  me  a  cigarette,  Katusha. 

[She  obeys.] 
We've  had  several  Jew-massacres  in  Kishineff. 

QUINCY 

Have  you  ?     The  papers  only  boomed  one — four  or 
five  years  ago — about  Easter  time,  I  think 

BARON 

Ah,  yes — when  the  Jews  insulted  the  procession  of  the 
Host! 

[Taking  a  light  from  the  cigarette  in  his  wife's 

mouth.~\ 

QUINCY 

Did  they  ?     I  thought 


BARON  [Sarcastically} 

I  daresay.  That's  the  lies  they  spread  in  the  West. 
They  have  the  Press  in  their  hands,  damn  'em.  But 
you  see  I  was  on  the  spot. 

[He  drops  into  a  chair."] 
I  had  charge  of  the  whole  district. 
109 


QUINCY  [Startled] 
You! 

BARON 

Yes,  and  I  hurried  a  regiment  up  to  teach  the  blas- 
pheming brutes  manners — 

[He  "puffs  out  a  leisurely  cloud.] 

QUINCY  [Whistling] 

Whew  !  .  .  .  I — I  say,  old  chap,  I  mean  Baron,  you'd 

better  not  say  that  here. 

BARON 

Why  not  ?     I  am  proud  of  it. 

BARONESS 

My  husband  vas  decorated  for  it — he  has  ze  order  of 
St.  Vladimir. 

BARON  [Proudly] 

Second  class !  Shall  we  allow  these  bigots  to  mock 
at  all  we  hold  sacred  ?  The  Jews  are  the  deadliest 
enemies  of  our  holy  autocracy  and  of  the  only  orthodox 
Church.  Their  Bund  is  behind  all  the  Revolution. 

BARONESS 

A  plague-spot  muz  be  cut  out ! 

QUINCY 

Well,  I'd  keep  it  dark  if  I  were  you.  Kishineff  is  a 
back  number,  and  we  don't  take  much  stock  in  the 

new  massacres.     Still,  we're  a  bit  squeamish 

no 


BARON 

Squeamish  !     Don't  you  lynch  and  roast  your  niggers  ? 

QUINCY 

Not  officially.     Whereas  your  Black  Hundreds 


BARON 

Black  Hundreds !     My  dear  Mr.  Davenport,  they  are 

the  white  hosts  of  Christ 

[Crossing  himself] 

and  of  the  Tsar,  who  is  God's  vicegerent  on  earth. 
Have  you  not  read  the  works  of  our  sainted  Pobie- 
donostzeff,  Procurator  of  the  Most  Holy  Synod  ? 

QUINCY 

Well,  of  course,  I  always  felt  there  was  another  side 
to  it,  but  still 

BARONESS 

Perhaps  he  has  right,  Alexis.  Our  Ambassador  vonce 
told  me  ze  Americans  are  more  sentimental  zan 
civilised. 

BARON 

Ah,  let  them  wait  till  they  have  ten  million  vermin 
overrunning  their  country — we  shall  see  how  long  they 
will  be  sentimental.  Think  of  it  !  A  burrowing 
swarm  creeping  and  crawling  everywhere,  ugh  !  They 
ruin  our  peasantry  with  their  loans  and  their  drink 
shops,  ruin  our  army  with  their  revolutionary  propa- 
ganda, ruin  our  professional  classes  by  snatching  all 
the  prizes  and  professorships,  ruin  our  commercial 
in 


classes  by  monopolising  our  sugar  industries,  our  oil- 
fields, our  timber-trade.  .  .  .  Why,  if  we  gave  them 
equal  rights,  our  Holy  Russia  would  be  entirely  run 
by  them. 

BARONESS 

Mon  dieu  !  C'est  vrai.  Ve  real  Russians  vould  become 
slaves. 

QUINCY 

Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ? 

BARON 

One-third  will  be  baptized,  one-third  massacred,  the 
other  third  emigrated  here. 

\He  strikes  a  match  to  relight  his  cigarette.] 

QUINCY  [Sbudderingly] 

Thank  you,  my  dear  Baron, — you've  already  sent  me 

one  Jew  too  many.     We're  going  to  stop  all  alien 

immigration. 

BARON 

To  stop  all  alien — ?     But  that  is  barbarous  ! 

QUINCY 

Well,  don't  let  us  waste  our  time  on  the  Jew-problem 
.  .  .  our  own  little  Jew-problem  is  enough,  eh  ?  Get 
rid  of  this  little  fiddler.  Then  /  may  have  a  look  in. 
Adieu,  Baron. 

112 


BARON 

Adieu. 

[Holding  his  hand] 
But  you  are  not  really  serious  about  Vera  ? 

[The  BARONESS  makes  a  gesture  of  annoyance.] 

QUINCY 

Not  serious,  Baron  ?  Why,  to  marry  her  is  the  only 
thing  I  have  ever  wanted  that  I  couldn't  get.  It  is' 
torture  !  Baroness,  I  rely  on  your  sympathy. 

[He  kisses  her  hand  with  a  pretentious  foreign  air.] 

BARONESS  [In  sentimental  approval] 
Ah  /   I* amour  !   P  amour  ! 

[Exit  QUINCY  DAVENPORT^  taking  his  cap  in  passing.] 
You  might  have  given  him  a  little  encouragement, 
Alexis. 

BARON 

Silence,  Katusha.  I  only  tolerated  the  man  in  Europe 
because  he  was  a  link  with  Vera. 

BARONESS 

You  accepted  his  yacht  and  his 

BARON 

If  I  had  known  his  loose  views  on  divorce 

BARONESS 

I   am  sick  of  your  scruples.     You  are  ze  only  poor 

official  in  Bessarabia. 

"3  H 


BARON 

Be  silent  !     Have  I  not  forbidden ? 

BARONESS  [Petulantly] 

Forbidden  !  Forbidden  !  All  your  life  you  have  served 
ze  Tsar,  and  you  cannot  afford  a  single  automobile. 
A  millionaire  son-in-law  is  just  vat  you  owe  me. 

BARON 

What  I  owe  you  ? 

BARONESS 

Yes,  ven  I  married  you,  I  vas  tinking  you  had  a  good 
position.  I  did  not  know  you  were  too  honest  to  use 
it.  You  vere  not  open  viz  me,  Alexis. 

BARON 

You  knew  I  was  a  Revendal.     The  Revendals  keep 

their  hands  clean.  .  .  . 

[With  a  sudden  start  he  tiptoes  noiselessly  to  the 
door  leading  to  the  hall  and  throws  it  open.  Nobody 
is  visible.  He  closes  it  shamefacedly] 

BARONESS  [Has  shared  his  nervousness  till  the  door 

was  opened,  but  now  bursts  into  mocking  laughter] 
If  you  thought  less  about  your  precious  safety,  and 
more  about  me  and  Vera 

BARON 

Hush !     You   do   not   know  Vera.     You   saw   I   was 

even  afraid  to  give  my  name.     She  might  have  sent 

me  away  as  she  sent  away  the  Tsar's  plate  of  mutton. 

114 


BARONESS 

The  Tsar's  plate  of ? 

BARON 

Did  I  never  tell  you  ?  When  she  was  only  a  school- 
girl— at  the  Imperial  High  School — the  Tsar  on  his 
annual  visit  tasted  the  food,  and  Vera,  as  the  show 
pupil,  was  given  the  honour  of  finishing  his  Majesty's 
plate. 

BARONESS  [In  incredulous  horror] 
And  she  sent  it  avay  ? 

BARON 

Gave  it  to  a  servant. 

[Awed  silence] 

And  then  you  think  I  can  impose  a  husband  on  her. 
No,  Katusha,  I  have  to  win  her  love  for  myself,  not 
for  millionaires. 

BARONESS  [Angry  again] 
Alvays  so  affright  fully  selfish  ! 

BARON 

I  have  no  control  over  her,  I  tell  you  ! 

[Bitterly] 
I  never  could  control  my  womenkind. 

BARONESS 

Because   you    zink   zey   are   your   soldiers.     Silence ! 

Halt  !     Forbidden  !     Right  Veel  !     March  ! 

"5 


BARON  [Sullenly] 

I  wish  I   did  think  they  were  my  soldiers — I  might 

try  the  lash. 

BARONESS  [Springing  up  angrily,  shakes  parasol  at 

him] 
You  British  barbarian  ! 

VERA  [Outside  the  door  leading  to  the  interior] 

Yes,  thank  you,  Miss  Andrews.     I  know  I  have  visitors. 

BARON  [Ecstatically] 

Vera's  voice  ! 

[The  BARONESS  lowers  her  parasol.  He  looks  yearn- 
ingly toward  the  door.  It  opens.  Enter  VERA  with 
inquiring  gaze.] 

VERA  [With  a  great  shock  of  surprise] 
Father  !  ! 

BARON 

Ferotschka  !     My  dearest  darling  !  .  .  . 

[He  makes  a  movement  toward  her,  but  is  checked 

by  her  irresponsivenessJ] 
Why,  you've  grown  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

VERA 

You  in  New  York  ! 

BARON 

The  Baroness  wished  to  see  America.     Katusha,  this 

is  my  daughter. 

116 


BARONESS  [In  sugared  sweetness] 
And  mine,  too,  if  she  vill  let  me  love  her. 

VERA  [Bowing  coldly,  but  still  addressing  her  father] 
But  how  ?     When  ? 

BARON 

We  have  just  come  and 

BARONESS  [Dashing  in] 

Zat  charming  young  man  lent  us  his  yacht — he  is 

adorahble. 

VERA 

What  charming  young  man  ? 

BARONESS 

Ah,  she  has  many,  ze  little  coquette — ha  !   ha  !   ha  ! 
[She  touches  VERA  'playfully  with  her  parasol.] 

BARON 

We  wished  to  give  you  a  pleasant  surprise. 

VERA 

It  is  certainly  a  surprise. 

BARON  [Chilled] 

You  are  not  very  .  .  .  daughterly. 

VERA 

Do  you  remember  when  you  last  saw  me  ?     You  did 

not  claim  me  as  a  daughter  then. 

117 


BARON  [Covers  bis  eyes  with  bis  band] 
Do  not  recall  it ;  it  hurts  too  much. 

VERA 

I  was  in  the  dock. 

BARON 

It  was  horrible.  I  hated  you  for  the  devil  of  rebellion 
that  had  entered  into  your  soul.  But  I  thanked  God 
when  you  escaped. 

VERA  [Softened] 

I  think  I  was  more  sorry  for  you  than  for  myself. 

I  hope,  at  least,  no  suspicion  fell  on  you. 

BARONESS  [Eagerly] 

But  it  did — an  avalanche  of  suspicion.  He  is  still 
buried  under  it.  Vy  else  did  they  make  Skovaloff 
Ambassador  instead  of  him  ?  Even  now  he  risks 
everyting  to  see  you  again.  Ah,  mon  enfant,  you  owe 
your  fazer  a  grand  reparation  ! 

VERA 

What  reparation  can  I  possibly  make  ? 

BARON  [Passionately] 
You  can  love  me  again,  Vera. 

BARONESS  [Stamping foot] 

Alexis,  you  are  interrupting 

118 


VERA 

I  fear,  father,  we  have  grown  too  estranged — our  ideas 
are  so  opposite 

BARON 

But  not  now,  Vera,  surely  not  now  ?  You  are  no 
longer 

[He  lowers  his  voice  and  looks  around] 
a  Revolutionist  ? 

VERA 

Not  with  bombs,  perhaps.     I  thank  Heaven  I  was 

caught  before  I  had  done  any  -practical  work.  But 

if    you    think    I    accept    the    order   of  things,  you 

are    mistaken.      In     Russia     I     fought     against  the 

autocracy 

BARON 

Hush!  Hush! 

[He  looks  round  nervously, .] 

VERA 

Here  I  fight  against  the  poverty.  No,  father,  a  woman 
who  has  once  heard  the  call  will  always  be  a  wild 
creature. 

BARON 

But  r 

[Lowering  bis  voice] 

those  revolutionary  Russian  clubs  here — you  are  not 
a  member  ? 
119 


VERA 

I  do  not  believe  in  Revolutions  carried  on  at  a  safe 
distance.     I  have  found  my  life-work  in  America. 

BARON 

I  am  enchanted,  Vera,  enchanted. 

BARONESS  [Gushingly] 

Permit  me  to  kiss  you,  belle  enfant. 

VERA 

I  do  not  know  you  enough  yet ;  I  will  kiss  my  father. 

BARON  [With  a  great  cry  of  joy] 
Vera! 

[He  embraces  her  passionately.] 

At   last  !     At   last !     I   have   found   my   little   Vera 
again  ! 

VERA 

No,  father,  your  Vera  belongs  to  Russia  with  her  mother 
and   the   happy   days   of   childhood.     But    for   their 

sakes 

[She  breaks  down  in  emotion.] 

BARON 

Ah,  your  poor  mother  ! 

BARONESS  [Tartly] 
Alexis,  I  perceive  I  am  too  many  ! 
[She  begins  to  go  toward  the  door.] 

120 


BARON 

No,  no,  Katusha.     Vera  will  learn  to  love  you,  too. 

VERA  [To  BARONESS] 

What    does    my   loving   you    matter  ?     I    can    never 

return  to  Russia. 

BARONESS  [Pausing] 

But  ve  can  come  here — often — ven  you  are  married. 

VERA  [Surprised] 
When  I  am  married  ? 
[Softly,  blushing] 
You  know  ? 

BARONESS  [Smiling] 

Ve  know  zat  charming  young  man  adores  ze  floor  your 

foot  treads  on  ! 

VERA  [Blushing] 
You  have  seen  David  ? 

BARON  [Hoarsely] 
David  ! 

[He  clenches  his  fist.] 

BARONESS  [Half  aside,  as  much  gestured  as  spoken] 
Sh  !     Leave  it  to  me. 

[Sweetly.] 
Oh?  no,  ve  have  not  seen  David. 

121 


VERA  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other] 

Not  seen — ?  Then  what — whom  are  you  talking  about  ? 

BARONESS 

About  zat  handsome,  quite  adorahble  Mr.  Davenport. 

VERA 

Davenport  ! 

BARONESS 

Who  combines  ze  manners  of  Europe  viz  ze  millions 
of  America  ! 

VERA  [Breaks  into  girlish  laughter] 
Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha  !    So  Mr.  Davenport  has  been  talking 
to  you  !     But  you  all  seem  to  forget  one  small  point — 
bigamy  is  not  permitted  even  to  millionaires. 

BARONESS 

Ah,  not  boz  at  vonce,  but 

VERA 

And  do  you  think  I  would  take  another  woman's 
leavings  ?  No,  not  even  if  she  were  dead. 

BARONESS 

You  are  insulting  ! 

VERA 

I  beg  your  pardon — I  wasn't  even  thinking  of  you. 
Father,  to  put  an  end  at  once  to  this  absurd  conversa- 
tion, let  me  inform  you  I  am  already  engaged. 

122 


BARON  [Trembling,  hoarst] 
By  name,  David. 

VERA 

Yes — David  Quixano. 

BARON 
A  Jew ! 

VERA 

How  did  you  know  ?     Yes,  he  is  a  Jew,  a  noble  Jew. 

BARON 

A  Jew  noble  ! 

[He  laughs  bitterly.] 

VERA 

Yes — even  as  you  esteem  nobility — by  pedigree.  In 
Spain  his  ancestors  were  hidalgos,  favourites  at  the 
Court  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  ;  but  in  the  great 
expulsion  of  1492  they  preferred  exile  in  Poland  to 
baptism. 

BARON 

And  you,  a  Revendal,  would  mate  with  an  unbaptized 

dog  ? 

VERA 

Dog  !     You  call  my  husband  a  dog  ! 

BARON 

Husband  !  God  in  heaven — are  you  married  already  ? 
123 


VERA 

No  !  But  not  being  unemployed  millionaires  like 
Mr.  Davenport,  we  hold  even  our  troth  eternal. 

[Calmer] 

Our  poverty,  not  your  prejudice,  stands  in  the  way 
of  our  marriage.  But  David  is  a  musician  of  genius, 
and  some  day 

BARONESS 

A  fiddler  in  a  beer-hall !  She  prefers  a  fiddler  to  a 
millionaire  of  ze  first  families  of  America  ! 

VERA  [Contemptuously] 

First  families !  I  told  you  David's  family  came  to  Poland 

in  1492 — some  months  before  America  was  discovered. 

BARON 

Christ  save  us !     You  have  become  a  Jewess ! 

VERA 

No  more  than  David  has  become  a  Christian.  We 
were  already  at  one — all  honest  people  are.  Surely, 
father,  all  religions  must  serve  the  same  God — since 
there  is  only  one  God  to  serve. 

BARONESS 

But  ze  girl  is  an  ateist  ! 

BARON 

Silence,  Katusha  !   Leave  me  to  deal  with  my  daughter. 

[Changing  tone  to  pathos,  taking  her  face  between 

bis  hands] 
124 


Oh,  Vera,  Ferotschka,  my  dearest  darling,  I  had  sooner 

you  had  remained  buried  in  Siberia  than  that 

[He  breaks  down.] 

VERA  [Touched,  sitting  beside  him] 

For  you,  father,  I  was  as  though  buried  in  Siberia. 

Why  did  you  come  here  to  stab  yourself  afresh  ? 

BARON 

I  wish  to  God  I  had  come  here  earlier.  I  wish  I 
had  not  been  so  nervous  of  Russian  spies.  Ah, 
Ferotschka,  if  you  only  knew  how  I  have  pored  over 
the  newspaper  pictures  of  you,  and  the  reports  of 
your  life  in  this  Settlement  ! 

VERA 

You  asked  me  not  to  send  letters. 

BARON 

I  know,  I  know — and  yet  sometimes  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  risk  Siberia  myself  to  read  your  dear,  dainty 
handwriting  again. 

VERA  [Still  more  softened] 

Father,  if  you  love  me  so  much,  surely  you  will  love 

David  a  little  too — for  my  sake. 

BARON  [Dazed] 

I — love — a  Jew  ?     Impossible. 

[He  shudders.] 
125 


VERA  [Moving  away,  icily] 

Then  so  is  any  love  from  me  to  you.  You  have 
chosen  to  come  back  into  my  life,  and  after  our  years 
of  pain  and  separation  I  would  gladly  remember  only 
my  old  childish  affection.  But  not  if  you  hate  David. 
You  must  make  your  choice. 

BARON  [Pitifully] 

Choice  ?     I  have  no  choice.     Can  I  carry  mountains  ? 
No  more  can  I  love  a  Jew. 
[He  rises  resolutely] 

BARONESS  [Who  has  turned  away,  fretting  and  fuming, 

turns  back  to  her  husband,  clapping  her  hands] 
Bravo  ! 

VERA  [Going  to  him  again,  coaxingly] 
I  don't  ask  you  to  carry  mountains,  but  to  drop  the 
mountains   you   carry — the   mountains   of  prejudice. 
Wait  till  you  see  him. 

BARON 

I  will  not  see  him. 

VERA 

Then  you  will  hear  him — he  is  going  to  make  music 
for  all  the  world.  You  can't  escape  him,  papasha, 
you  with  your  love  of  music,  any  more  than  you 
escaped  Rubinstein. 

BARONESS 
Rubinstein  vas  not  a  Jew. 
126 


VERA 

Rubinstein  was  a  Jewish  boy-genius,  just  like  my  David. 

BARONESS 

But  his  parents  vere  baptized  soon  after  his  birth. 
I  had  it  from  his  patroness,  ze  Grande  Duchesse 
Helena  Pavlovna. 

VERA 

And  did  the  water  outside  change  the  blood  within  ? 
Rubinstein  was  our  Court  pianist  and  was  decorated 
by  the  Tsar.  And  you,  the  Tsar's  servant,  dare  to 
say  you  could  not  meet  a  Rubinstein. 

BARON  [Wavering] 

I  did  not  say  I  could  not  meet  a  Rubinstein. 

VERA 

You  practically  said  so.  David  will  be  even  greater 
than  Rubinstein.  Come,  father,  I'll  telephone  for 
him  ;  he  is  only  round  the  corner. 

BARONESS  [Excitedly] 
Ve  vill  not  see  him  ! 

VERA  [Ignoring  her] 

He  shall  bring  his  violin  and  play  to  you.  There  ! 
You  see,  little  father,  you  are  already  less  frowning — 
now  take  that  last  wrinkle  out  of  your  forehead. 

[She  caresses  his  forehead] 

Never  mind  !     David  will  smooth  it  out  with  his  music 
as  his  Biblical  ancestor  smoothed  that  surly  old  Saul. 
127 


BARONESS 

Ve  vill  not  hear  him  ! 

BARON 

Silence,  Katusha  !  Oh,  my  little  Vera,  I  little  thought 
when  I  let  you  study  music  at  Petersburg 

VERA  [Smiling  wheedlingly] 

That  I  should  marry  a  musician.  But  you  see,  little 
father,  it  all  ends  in  music  after  all.  Now  I  will  go 
and  perform  on  the  telephone,  I'm  not  angel  enough 
to  bear  one  in  here. 

[She  goes  toward  the  door  of  the  hall,  smiling  happily.] 

BARON  [With  a  last  agonized  cry  of  resistance] 
Halt! 

VERA  [Turning,  makes  mock  military  salute] 
Yes,  papasha. 

BARON  [Overcome  by  her  roguish  smile] 

You — I — he — do  you  love  this  J —  this  David  so  mucn  r 

VERA  [Suddenly  tragic] 

It  would  kill  me  to  give  him  up. 

[Resuming  smile] 

But  don't  let  us  talk  of  funerals  on  this  happy  day 
of  sunshine  and  reunion. 

[She  kisses  her  hand  to  him  and  exit  toward  the  hall] 

BARONESS  [Angrily] 

You  are  in  her  hands  as  vax  ! 

128 


BARON 

She  is  the  only  child  I  have  &ver  had,  Katusha.  Her 
baby  arms  curled  round  my  neck  ;  in  her  baby  sorrows 
her  wet  face  nestled  against  little  father's. 

[He  drops  on  a  chair,  and  leans  his  head  on  the 

table.] 

BARONESS  [Approaching  tauntingly] 
So  you  vill  have  a  Jew  son-in-law  ! 

BARON 

You  don't  know  what  it  meant  to  me  to  feel  her  arms 
round  me  again. 

BARONESS 

And  a  hook-nosed  brat  to  call  you  grandpapa,  and 
nestle  his  greasy  face  against  yours. 

BARON  [Banging  his  fist  on  the  table] 
Don't  drive  me  mad  ! 

[His  head  drops  again] 

BARONESS 

Then  drive  me  home — I  vill  not  meet  him.  .  .  . 
Alexis ! 

[She  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  with  her  parasol. 

He  does  not  move] 
Alexis  Ivanovitch  !     Do  you  not  listen  !  .  .  . 

[She  stamps  her  foot.] 
Zen  I  go  to  ze  hotel  alone. 

[She  walks  angrily  toward  the  hall.      Just  before 

she  reaches  the  door,  it  opens,  and  the  servant  ushers 
129  i 


in  HERR  PAPPELMEISTER  with  his  umbrella.     The 

BARONESS'S    tone    changes    instantly    to    a    sugared 

society  accent.] 
How  do  you  do,  Herr  Pappelmeister  ? 

[She  extends  her  hand,  which  he  takes  limply.] 
You  don't  remember  me  ?     Non  ? 

[Exit  servant.] 

Ve  vere  with  Mr.  Quincy  Davenport  at  Wiesbaden — 
ze  Baroness  Revendal. 

PAPPELMEISTER 
So/ 

[He  drops  her  hand.] 

BARONESS 

Yes,  it  vas  ze  Baron's  entousiasm  for  you  zat  got  you 
your  present  position. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Arching  bis  eyebrows] 
So/ 

BARONESS 

Yes — zere  he  is  ! 

[She  turns  toward  the  BARON.] 
Alexis,  rouse  yourself  ! 

[She  taps  him  with  her  .parasol.] 
Zis  American  air  makes  ze  Baron  so  sleepy. 

BARON  [Rises  dazedly  and  bows] 

Charmed  to  meet  you,  Herr 

139 


BARONESS 

Pappelmeister !      You    remember    ze    great    Pappel- 
meister. 

BARON  [Waking  up,  becomes  keen] 

Ah,  yes,  yes,  charmed — why  do  you  never  bring  your 

orchestra  to  Russia,  Herr  Pappelmeister  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Surprised] 

Russia  ?     It  never  occurred  to  me  to  go  to  Russia — 

she  seems  so  uncivilised. 

BARONESS  [Angry] 

Uncivilised  !     Vy,  ve  have  ze  finest  restaurants  in  ze 

vorld  !     And  ze  best  telephones  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 
So? 

BARONESS 

Yes,  and  the  most  beautiful  ballets — Russia  is  affright- 
fully  misunderstood. 

[She  sweeps  away  in  burning  indignation.     PAPPEL- 
MEISTER murmurs  in  deprecation.     Re-enter  VERA 
from  the  hall.     She  is  gay  and  happy.] 

VERA 

He  is  coming  round  at  once 

[She  utters  a  cry  of  pleased  surprised] 
Herr  Pappelmeister  !     This  is  indeed  a  pleasure  ! 

[She  gives  PAPPELMEISTER  her  hand,  which  he  kisses.] 
m 


BARONESS  [Sotto  voce  to  the  BARON] 
Let  us  go  before  he  comes. 

[The  BARON  ignores  her,  his  eyes  hungrily  on  VERA.] 

PAPPELMEISTER  [To  VERA] 

But  I  come  again — you  have  visitors. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Only  my  father  and 


PAPPELMEISTER  [Surprised] 
Your  fader  ?     Acb  so  ! 

[He  taps  his  forehead] 
Revendal ! 

BARONESS  [Sotto  voce  to  the  BARON] 
I  vill  not  meet  a  Jew,  I  tell  you. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

But  you  vill  vant  to  talk  to  your  fader,  and  all  I  vant 
is  Mr.  Quixano's  address.  De  Irish  maiden  at  de  house 
says  de  bird  is  flown. 

VERA  [Gravely] 

I  don't  know  if  I  ought  to  tell  you  where  the  new 

nest  is 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Disappointed] 
Ach.i 

VERA  [Smiling] 

But  I  will  produce  the  bird. 

132 


PAPPELMEISTER  [Looks  round} 
You  vill  broduce  Mr.  Quixano  ? 

VERA  [Merrily] 

By  clapping  my  hands. 

[Mysteriously] 
I  am  a  magician. 

BARON  [Whose  eyes  have  been  glued  on  VERA] 

You    are,    indeed !     I    don't    know    how    you    nave 

bewitched  me. 

[The  BARONESS  glares  at  him.] 

VERA 

Dear  little  father  ! 

[She  crosses  to  him  and  strokes  his  hair.] 
Herr  Pappelmeister,  tell  father  about  Mr.  Quixano's 
music. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Shaking  his  head] 
Music  cannot  be  talked  about. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

That's  a  nasty  one  for  the  critics.     But  tell  father 

what  a  genius  Da —  Mr.  Quixano  is. 

BARONESS  [Desperately  intervening] 

Good-bye,  Vera. 

[She  thrusts  out  her  hand,  which  VERA  takes.] 

I    have    a    headache.     You    muz    excuse    me.     Herr 

Pappelmeister,  au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir. 

[PAPPELMEISTER  hastens  to  the  door.,  which  he  holds 
open.    The  BARONESS  turns  and  glares  at  the  BARON.] 


BARON  [Agitated] 

Let  me  see  you  to  the  auto 

BARONESS 

You  could  see  me  to  ze  hotel  almost  as  quick. 

BARON  [To  VERA] 

I  won't  say  good-bye,  Ferotschka — I  shall  be  back. 

[He  goes  toward  the  hall,  then  turns. ,] 
You  will  keep  your  Rubinstein  waiting  ? 

[VERA  smiles  lovingly, ,] 

BARONESS 

You  are  keeping  me  vaiting. 

[He  turns  quickly.    Exeunt  BARON  and  BARONESS.] 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  now  broduce  Mr.  Quixano  ! 

VERA 

Not  so  fast.    What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 
Put  him  in  my  orchestra  ! 

VERA  [Ecstatic] 
Oh,  you  dear  ! 

[Then  her  tone  changes  to  disappointment] 
But  he  won't  go  into  Mr.  Davenport's  orchestra. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

It  is  no  more  Mr.  Davenport's  orchestra.     He  fired 


me,   don't  you  remember  ?     Now   I   boss — how  say 
you  in  American  ? 

VERA  [Smiling] 
Your  own  show. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Ja,   my   own   band.     Ven    I   left    dat   comic   opera 
millionaire,  dey  all  shtick  to  me  almost  to  von  man. 

VERA 

How  nice  of  them  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

All  egsept  de  Christian — he  vas  de  von  man.     He 

shtick  to  de  millionaire.     So  I  lose  my  brincipal  first 

violin. 

VERA 

And  Mr.  Quixano  is  to — oh,  how  delightful ! 
[She  daps  her  hands  girlishly.] 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Looks  round  mischievously] 
Ach,  de  magic  failed. 

VERA  [Puzzle*] 
Eh! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

You  do  not  broduce  him.     You  clap  de  hands — but 
you  do  not  broduce  him.     Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha  ! 

[He  breaks  into  a  great  roar  of  genial  laughter.^ 
135 


VERA  [Chiming  in  merrily] 

Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !     But  I  said  I  have  to  know  everything 

first.     Will  he  get  a  good  salary  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Enough  to  keep  a  vife  and  eight  children  ! 

VERA  [Blushing] 
But  he  hasn't  a 


PAPPELMEISTER 

No,  but  de  Christian  had — he  get  de  same — I  mean 
salary,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  not  children.  Den  he  can  be 
independent — vedder  de  fool-public  like  his  American 
symphony  or  not — nicht  zvahr  ? 

VERA 

You  are  good  to  us 

[Hastily  correcting  herself] 
to  Mr.  Quixano. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Smiling] 

And  aldough  you  cannot  broduce  him,  I  broduce  his 

symphony.     Was  ? 

VERA 

Oh,  Herr  Pappelmeister  !     You  are  an  angel. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Nein,  nein,  mein  liebes  Kind !  I  fear  I  haf  not  de 
correct  shape  for  an  angel. 

[He  laughs  heartily.  A  knock  at  the  door  from  the  hall.] 
136 


VERA  [Merrily] 

Now  I  clap  my  hands. 
[She  claps.] 

Come  ! 

[The  door  opens.] 

Behold  him  ! 

[She  makes  a  conjurer's  gesture.  DAVID,  bare- 
headed, carrying  his  fiddle,  opens  the  door,  and 
stands  staring  in  amazement  at  PAPPELMEISTER.] 

DAVID 

I  thought  you  asked  me  to  meet  your  father. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

She  is  a  magician.     She  has  changed  us. 

[He  waves  his  umbrella.] 
Hey  presto,  was  ?    Ha  !   Ha  !   Ha  ! 

[He  goes  to  DAVID,  and  shakes  hands.] 
Und  wie  gehfs  ?     I  hear  you've  left  home. 

DAVID 

Yes,  but  I've  such  a  bully  cabin 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Alarmed] 

You  are  sailing  avay  ? 

VERA  [Laughing] 

No,  no — that's  only  his  way  of  describing  his  two- 

dollar-a-month  garret. 

DAVID 

Yes — my  state-room  on  the  top  deck  ! 

137 


VERA  [Smiling] 
Six  foot  square. 

DAVID 

But  three  other  passengers  aren't  squeezed  in,  and 
it  never  pitches  and  tosses.     It's  heavenly. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Smiling] 

And  from  heaven  you  flew  down  to  blay  in  dat  beer- 
hall.     Was? 

[DAVID  looks  surprised] 
I  heard  you. 

DAVID 

You  !     What  on  earth  did  you  go  there  for  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Vat  on  earth  does  one  go  to  a  beer-hall  for  ?  Ha  ! 
Ha  !  Ha  !  For  vawter  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ven  I 
hear  you  blay,  I  dink  mit  myself — if  my  blans  succeed 
and  I  get  Carnegie  Hall  for  Saturday  Symphony 
Concerts,  dat  boy  shall  be  one  of  my  first  violins.  Was  ? 
[He  slaps  DAVID  on  the  left  shoulder.] 

DAVID  [Overwhelmed,  ecstatic,  yet  wincing  a  little  at 
the  slap  on  his  wound] 

Be  one  of  your  first 

[Remembering] 
Oh,  but  it  is  impossible. 

VERA  [Alarmed] 

Mr.  Quixano  !     You  must  not  refuse. 
138 


DAVID 

But  does  Herr  Pappelmeister  know  about  the  wound 

in  my  shoulder  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Agitated] 
You  haf  been  vounded  ? 

DAVID 

Only  a  legacy  from  Russia — but  it  twinges  in  some 
weathers. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  de  pain  ubsets  your  blaying  ? 

DAVID 

Not  so  much  the  pain — it's  all  the  dreadful  memories — 

VERA  [Alarmed] 
Don't  talk  of  them. 

DAVID 

I  must  explain  to  Herr  Pappelmeister — it  wouldn't  be 
fair.     Even  now 
[Shuddering\ 

there  comes  up  before  me  the  bleeding  body  of  my 
mother,  the  cold,  fiendish  face  of  the  Russian  officer, 
supervising  the  slaughter 

VERA 

Hush!   Hush! 
139 


DAVID  [Hysterically] 

Oh,  that  butcher's  face — there  it  is — hovering  in  the 

air,  that  narrow,  fanatical  forehead,  that 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Brings  down  his  umbrella  with  a 

bang] 

Schluss  !  No  man  ever  dared  break  down  under  me. 
M.y  baton  will  beat  avay  all  dese  faces  and  fancies. 
Out  with  your  violin  ! 

[He  taps  bis  umbrella  imperiously  on  the  table.] 
Keinen  Mut  verheren  ! 

[DAVID  takes  out  his  violin  from  its  case  and  'puts  it 

to  his  shoulder,  PAPPELMEISTER  keeping  up  a  hypnotic 

torrent  of  encouraging  German  cries.] 
Also  !    Fertig  !    Anfangen  ! 

[He  raises  and  waves  his  umbrella  like  a  baton.] 
Von,  dwo,  dree,  four 

DAVID  [With  a  great  sigh  of  relief] 
Thanks,  thanks — they  are  gone  already. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  You  see.  And  ven  ve  blay  your 
American  symphony 

DAVID  [Dazed] 

You  will  play  my  American  symphony  ? 

VERA  [Disappointed] 
Don't  you  jump  for  joy  i 
140 


DAVID  [Still  dazed  but  ecstatic] 
Herr  Pappelmeister  ! 

{Changing  back  to  despondency] 

But  what  certainty  is  there  your  Carnegie  Hall 
audience  would  understand  me  ?  It  would  be  the 
same  smart  set. 

[He  drops  dejectedly  into  a  chair  and  lays  down  his 
~ 


PAPPELMEISTER 

Ach,  nein.     Of  course,  some  —  ve  can't  keep  peoble 
out  merely  because  dey  pay  for  deir  seats.     Was  ? 
[He  laughs.] 

DAVID 

It  was  always  my  dream  to  play  it  first  to  the  new 
immigrants  —  those  who  have  known  the  pain  of  the 
old  world  and  the  hope  of  the  new. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Try  it  on  the  dog.     Was  ? 

DAVID 

Yes  —  on  the  dog  that  here  will  become  a  man  : 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Shakes  his  head] 

I  fear  neider  dogs  nor  men  are  a  musical  breed. 

DAVID 

The  immigrants  will  not  understand  my  music  with 
their  brains  or  their  ears,  but  with  their  hearts  and 
their  souls. 
141 


VERA 

Well,  then,  why  shouldn't  it  be  done  here — on  our 
Roof-Garden  ? 

DAVID  [Jumping  up] 
KBas-Kol!    ABas-K6l.' 

VERA 

What  are  you  talking  ? 

DAVID 

Hebrew  !     It  means  a  voice  from  heaven. 

VERA 

Ah,  but  will  Herr  Pappelmeister  consent  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Sowing] 

Who  can  disobey  a  voice  from  heaven  ?  .  .  .  But  ven  ? 

VERA 

On  some  holiday  evening.  .  .  .  Why  not  the  Fourth 
of  July  ? 

DAVID  [Still  more  ecstatic] 

Another  Bas-Kol  /  .  .  .  My  American  Symphony  ! 
Played  to  the  People  !  Under  God's  sky  !  On  Inde- 
pendence Day  !  With  all  the 

\Waving  his  hand  expressively,  sighs  voluptuously.] 
That  will  be  too  perfect. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Smiling] 

Dat  has  to  be  seen.     You  must  permit  me  to  invite 

142 


DAVID  [In  horror] 
Not  the  musical  critics  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Raising  both  bands  with  umbrella 

in  equal  horror] 

Gott  bewahre  !     But  I'd  like  to  invite  all  de  persons 
in  New  York  who  really  undershtand  music. 

VERA 

Splendid  !     But  should  we  have  room  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Room  ?     I  vant  four  blaces. 

VERA  [Smiling] 

You  are  severe  !     Mr.  Davenport  was  right. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Smiling] 

Perhaps  de  oders  vill  be  out  of  town.     Also  ! 

[Holding  out  his  hand  to  DAVID] 

You  come  to  Carnegie  to-morrow  at  eleven.     Yes  ? 
Frdulein. 

[Kisses  her  hand.] 
AuJ  Wiedersehen  ! 

[Going] 
On  de  Roof-Garden — nicht  wahr  ? 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Wind  and  weather  permitting. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

I  haf  alvays  mein  umbrella.     Was  ?    Ha  !     Ha  /     Ha  ! 

H3 


VERA  [Murmuring] 

Isn't  he  a  darling  ?     Isn't  he ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Pausing  suddenly] 
But  ve  never  settled  de  salary. 

DAVID 

Salary  ! 

[He  looks  dazedly  from  one  to  the  other.] 
For  the  honour  of  playing  in  your  orchestra  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Shylock !  !  .  .  .  Never  mind — ve  settle  de  pound  of 
flesh  to-morrow.     Lebe  wohl  ! 
[Exit,  the  door  closes.] 

VERA  [Suddenly  miserable] 
How  selfish  of  you,  David  ! 

DAVID 
Selfish,  Vera  ? 

VERA 

Yes — not  to  think  of  your  salary.     It  looks  as  if  you. 
didn't  really  love  me. 

DAVID 

Not  love  you  ?     I  don't  understand. 

VERA  [Half  in  tears] 

Just  when  I  was  so  happy  to  think  that  now  we  shall 

be  able  to  marry. 

144 


DAVID 

Shall  we  ?     Marry  ?     On  my  salary  as  first  violin  ? 

VERA 

Not  if  you  don't  want  to. 

DAVID 

Sweetheart !     Can  it  be  true  ?     How  do  you  know  ? 

VERA  [Smiling] 

Pm  not  a  Jew.     I  asked. 

DAVID 

My  guardian  angel ! 

{Embracing  her.     He  sits  down,  she  lovingly  at  his 
feet.] 

VERA  [Looking  up  at  him] 
Then  you  do  care  ? 

DAVID 

What  a  question ! 

VERA 

And  you  don't  think  wholly  of  yourmusic  and  forget  me? 

DAVID 

Why,  you  are  behind  all  I  write  and  play ! 

VERA  [With  jealous  passion] 

Behind  ?     But  I  want  to  be  before !     I  want  you  to 

love  me  first,  before  everything. 

145  * 


DAVID 

I  do  put  you  before  everything. 

VERA 

You  are  sure  ?     And  nothing  shall  part  us  ? 

DAVID 

Not  all  the  seven  seas  could  part  you  and  me. 

VERA 

And  you  won't  grow  tired  of  me — not  even  when  you 
are  world-famous ? 

DAVID  [A  shade  petulant] 

Sweetheart,  considering  I  should  owe  it  all  to  you 

VERA  [Drawing  his  head  down  to  her  breast] 
Oh,  David !  David !  Don't  be  angry  with  poor 
little  Vera  if  she  doubts,  if  she  wants  to  feel  quite 
sure.  You  see  father  has  talked  so  terribly,  and  after 
all  I  was  brought  up  in  the  Greek  Church,  and  we 
oughtn't  to  cause  all  this  suffering  unless 

DAVID 

Those  who  love  us  must  suffer,  and  we  must  suffer  in 
their  suffering.  It  is  live  things,  not  dead  metals, 
that  are  being  melted  in  the  Crucible. 

VERA 

Still,  we  ought  to  soften  the  suffering  as  much  as 

DAVID 

Yes,  but  only  Time  can  heal  it. 
146 


VERA  [With  transition  to  happiness] 
But    father    seems    half-reconciled    already !      Dear 
little  father,  if  only  he  were  not  so  narrow  about  Holy 
Russia  ! 

DAVID 

If  only  my   folks   were   not   so   narrow  about   Holy 
Judea  !     But  the  ideals  of  the  fathers  shall  not  be 
foisted  on  the  children.     Each  generation  must  live 
and  die  for  its  own  dream. 

VERA 

Yes,  David,  yes.     You  are  the  prophet  of  the  living 

present.     I  am  so  happy. 

[She  looks  up  wistfully.] 
You  are  happy,  too  ? 

DAVID 

I  am  dazed — I  cannot  realise  that  all  our  troubles  have 
melted  away — it  is  so  sudden. 

VERA 

You,  David  ?  Who  always  see  everything  in  such 
rosy  colours  ?  Now  that  the  whole  horizon  is  one 
great  splendid  rose,  you  almost  seem  as  if  gazing  out 
toward  a  blackness- 

DAVID 

We  Jews  are  cheerful  in  gloom,  mistrustful  in  joy.  It 
is  our  tragic  history 

VERA 

But  you  have  come  to  end  the  tragic  history  ;  to  throw 
off  the  coils  of  the  centuries. 


DAVID  [Smiling  again] 

Yes,  yes,  Vera.     You  bring  back  my  sunnier  self.     I 

must   be   a   pioneer   on    the  lost   road   of  happiness. 

To-day  shall  be  all  joy,  all  lyric  ecstasy. 
[He  takes  up  his  violin.'] 

Yes,  I  will  make  my  old  fiddle-strings  burst  with  joy  ! 
[He  dashes  into  a  jubilant  tarantella.  After  a  few 
bars  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door  leading  from  the 
hall  ;  their  happy  faces  betray  no  sign  of  hearing 
it  ;  then  the  door  slightly  opens,  and  BARON  REVEN- 
DAL'S  head  looks  hesitatingly  in.  As  DAVID  per- 
ceives it,  his  features  work  convulsively,  his  string 
breaks  with  a  tragic  snap,  and  he  totters  backward 
into  VERA'S  arms.  Hoarsely] 

The  face  !     The  face  ! 

VERA 

David — my  dearest ! 

DAVID  [His  eyes  closed,  his  violin  clasped  mechanically] 
Don't  be  anxious — I  shall  be  better  soon — I  oughtn't 
to  have  talked  about  it — the  hallucination  has  never 
been  so  complete. 

VERA 

Don't   speak — rest   against   Vera's   heart — till   it   has 

passed  away. 

[The  BARON  comes  dazedly  forward,  half  with  a 
shocked  sense  of  VERA'S  impropriety,  half  to  relieve 
her  of  her  burden.  She  motions  him  back.~\ 

This  is  the  work  of  your  Holy  Russia. 

148 


BARON  [Harshly] 

What  is  the  matter  with  him  ? 

[DAVID'S  violin  and  bow  drop  from  his  grasp  and 

fall  on  the  table, ] 

DAVID 

The  voice  ! 

[He  opens  his  eyes,  stares  frenziedly  at  the  BARON, 
then  struggles  out  of  VERA'S  arms.] 

VERA  [Trying  to  stop  him] 
Dearest 

DAVID 

Let  me  go. 

[He  moves  like  a  sleep-walker  toward  the  paralysed 
BARON,  puts  out  his  hand,  and  testingly  touches  the 
face.] 

BARON  [Shuddering  back] 
Hands  off ! 

DAVID  [With  a  great  cry] 

A-a-a-h  !     It  is  flesh  and  blood.     No,  it  is  stone — the 

man  of  stone  !     Monster  ! 

[He  raises  his  hand  frenziedly.] 

BARON  [Whipping  out  his  pistol] 
Back,  dog  ! 

[VERA  darts  between  them  with  a  shriek.] 
149 


DAVID  [Frozen  again,  surveying  the  pistol  stonily'] 
Ha  !     You  want   my  life,   too.     Is  the  cry  not  yet 
loud  enough  ? 

BARON 

The  cry  ? 

DAVID  [Mystically] 

Can  you  not  hear  it  ?  The  voice  of  the  blood  of  my 
brothers  crying  out  against  you  from  the  ground  ? 
Oh,  how  can  you  bear  not  to  turn  that  pistol  against 
yourself  and  execute  upon  yourself  the  justice  which 
Russia  denies  you  ? 

BARON 

Tush  ! 

[Pocketing  the  pistol  a  little  shamefacedly^ 

VERA 

Justice  on  himself  ?     For  what  ? 

DAVID 

For  crimes  beyond  human  penalty,  for  obscenities 
beyond  human  utterance,  for 

VERA 

You  are  raving. 

DAVID 

Would  to  heaven  I  were  ! 

150 


VERA 

But  this  is  my  father. 

DAVID 

Your  father  !  .  .  .  God ! 
[He  staggers."] 

BARON  [Drawing  her  to  him] 
Come,  Vera,  I  told  you 

VERA  [Frantically,  shrinking  back] 
Don't  touch  me  ! 

BARON  [Starting  back  in  amaze] 
Vera! 

VERA  [Hoarsely] 

Say  it's  not  true. 

BARON 

What  is  not  true  ? 

VERA 

What  David  said.     It  was  the  mob  that  massacred — 
you  had  no  hand  in  it. 

BARON  [Sullenly] 

I  was  there  with  my  soldiers. 

DAVID  [Leaning,  pale,  against  a  chair,  hisses] 

And  you  looked  on  with  that  cold  face  of  hate — while 

my  mother — my  sister 


BARON  [Sullenly] 

I  could  not  see  everything. 

DAVID 

Now  and  again  you  ordered  your  soldiers  to  fire 

VERA  [In  joyous  relief] 

Ah,  he  did  check  the  mob — he  did  tell  his  soldiers  to 

fire. 

DAVID 

At  any  Jew  who  tried  to  defend  himself. 

VERA 
Great  God  ! 

[She  falls  on  the  sofa  and  buries  her  head  on  the 

cushion,  moaning] 
Is  there  no  pity  in  heaven  ? 

DAVID 

There  was  no  pity  on  earth. 

BARON 

It  was  the  People  avenging  itself,  Vera.  The  People 
rose  like  a  flood.  It  had  centuries  of  spoliation  to 
wipe  out.  The  voice  of  the  People  is  the  voice  of 
God. 

VERA  [Moaning] 

But  you  could  have  stopped  them. 

152 


BARON 

I  had  no  orders  to  defend  the  foes  of  Christ  and 

[Crossing  himself] 
the  Tsar.     The  People 

VERA 

But  you  could  have  stopped  them. 

BARON 

Who  can  stop  a  flood  ?     I  did  my  duty.     A  soldier's 

duty  is  not  so  pretty  as  a  musician's. 

VERA 

But  you  could  have  stopped  them. 

BARON  [Losing  all  patience] 

Silence  !  You  talk  like  an  ignorant  girl,  blinded  by 
passion.  The  pogrom  is  a  holy  crusade.  Are  we 
Russians  the  first  people  to  crush  down  the  Jew  ? 
No — from  the  dawn  of  history  the  nations  have  had 
to  stamp  upon  him — the  Egyptians,  the  Assyrians,  the 
Persians,  the  Babylonians,  the  Greeks,  the  Romans 

DAVID 

Yes,  it  is  true.  Even  Christianity  did  not  invent 
hatred.  But  not  till  Holy  Church  arose  were  we 
burnt  at  the  stake,  and  not  till  Holy  Russia  arose  were 
our  babes  torn  limb  from  limb.  Oh,  it  is  too  much  ! 
Delivered  from  Egypt  four  thousand  years  ago,  to  be 
slaves  to  the  Russian  Pharaoh  to-day. 

[He  falls  as  if  kneeling  on  a  chair,  and  leans  his 

head  on  the  rail.] 


O  God,  shall  we  always  be  broken  on  the  wheel  of 
history  ?  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ? 

BARON  [Savagely] 

Till  you  are  all  stamped  out,  ground  into  your  dirt. 

[Tenderly] 

Look  up,  little  Vera  !  You  saw  how  papasha  loves 
you — how  he  was  ready  to  hold  out  his  hand — and 
how  this  cur  tried  to  bite  it.  Be  calm — tell  him  a 
daughter  of  Russia  cannot  mate  with  dirt. 

VERA 

Father,  I  will  be  calm.  I  will  speak  without  passion 
or  blindness.  I  will  tell  David  the  truth.  I  was  never 
absolutely  sure  of  my  love  for  him — perhaps  that  was 
why  I  doubted  his  love  for  me — often  after  our 
enchanted  moments  there  would  come  a  nameless 
uneasiness,  some  vague  instinct,  relic  of  the  long 
centuries  of  Jew-loathing,  some  strange  shrinking  from 
his  Christless  creed 

BARON  \With  an  exultant  cry] 
Ah  !     She  is  a  Revendal. 

VERA 

But  now- 


[She  rises  and  walks  firmly  toward  DAVID] 
now,  David,  I  come  to  you,  and  I  say  in  the  words 
of  Ruth,  thy  people  shall  be  my  people  and  thy  God 
my  God  ! 

[She  stretches  out  her  hands  to  DAVID.] 
'54 


BARON 

You  shameless- 


\He   stops    as    he    -perceives    DAVID    remains    im- 
passive.] 

VERA  [With  agonised  cry] 
David ! 

DAVID  [In  low,  icy  tones] 

You  cannot  come  to  me.     There  is  a  river  of  blood 

between  us. 

VERA 

Were  it  seven  seas,  our  love  must  cross  them. 

DAVID 

Easy  words  to  you.  You  never  saw  that  red  flood 
bearing  the  mangled  breasts  of  women  and  the  spat- 
tered brains  of  babes  and  sucklings.  Oh  ! 

[He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  The  BARON 
turns  away  in  gloomy  impotence.  At  last  DAVID 
begins  to  speak  quietly,  almost  dreamily] 
It  was  your  Easter,  and  the  air  was  full  of  holy  bells 
and  the  streets  of  holy  processions — priests  in  black 
and  girls  in  white  and  waving  palms  and  crucifixes, 
and  everybody  exchanging  Easter  eggs  and  kissing 
one  another  three  times  on  the  mouth  in  token  of 
peace  and  goodwill,  and  even  the  Jew-boy  felt  the 
spirit  of  love  brooding  over  the  earth,  though  he  did 
not  then  know  that  this  Christ,  whom  holy  chants 
proclaimed  re-risen,  was  born  in  the  form  of  a  brother 


Jew.  And  what  added  to  the  peace  and  holy  joy  was 
that  our  own  Passover  was  shining  before  us.  My 
mother  had  already  made  the  raisin  wine,  and  my 
greedy  little  brother  Solomon  had  sipped  it  on  the 
sly  that  very  morning.  We  were  all  at  home — all 
except  my  father — he  was  away  in  the  little  Synagogue 
at  which  he  was  cantor.  Ah,  such  a  voice  he  had — 
a  voice  of  tears  and  thunder — when  he  prayed  it  was 
like  a  wounded  soul  beating  at  the  gates  of  Heaven — 
but  he  sang  even  more  beautifully  in  the  ritual  of 
home,  and  how  we  were  looking  forward  to  his  hymns 
at  the  Passover  table 

\He  breaks  down.     The  BARON  has  gradually  turned 

round  under   the  spell  of  DAVID'S  story  and  now 

listens  hypnotised.'] 

I  was  playing  my  cracked  little  fiddle.  Little  Miriam 
was  making  her  doll  dance  to  it.  Ah,  that  decrepit 
old  china  doll — the  only  one  the  poor  child  had  ever 
had — I  can  see  it  now — one  eye,  no  nose,  half  an  arm. 
We  were  all  laughing  to  see  it  caper  to  my  music. 
.  .  .  My  father  flies  in  through  the  door,  desperately 
clasping  to  his  breast  the  Holy  Scroll.  We  cry  out 
to  him  to  explain,  and  then  we  see  that  in  that  beloved 
mouth  of  song  there  is  no  longer  a  tongue — only 
blood.  He  tries  to  bar  the  door — a  mob  breaks  in — 
we  dash  out  through  the  back  into  the  street.  There 
are  the  soldiers — and  the  Face 

[VERA'S    eyes   involuntarily    seek    the  face   of  her 
father,  who  shrinks  away  as  their  eyes  meet.~\ 

VERA  [In  a  low  sob} 

O  God  ! 

156 


DAVID 

When  I  came  to  myself,  with  a  curious  aching  in  my 
left  shoulder,  I  saw  lying  beside  me  a  strange  shapeless 
Something  .... 

[DAVID  points  weirdly  to  the  floor,  and  VERA,  bunched 
forwards,   gazes   stonily   at    it,    as    if  seeing   the 

horror.] 

By  the  crimson  doll  in  what  seemed  a  hand  I  knew  it 
must  be  little  Miriam.  The  doll  was  a  dream  of 
beauty  and  perfection  beside  the  mutilated  mass 
which  was  all  that  remained  of  my  sister,  of  my  mother, 
of  greedy  little  Solomon —  Oh !  You  Christians 
can  only  see  that  rosy  splendour  on  the  horizon  of 
happiness.  And  the  Jew  didn't  see  rosily  enough  for 
you,  ha  !  ha  !  ha !  the  Jew  who  gropes  in  one  great 
crimson  mist. 

[He  breaks  down  in  spasmodic,  ironic,  long-drawn, 

terrible  laughter. ] 

VERA  [Trying  vainly  to  tranquillise  him] 

Hush,  David  !     Your  laughter  hurts  more  than  tears. 

Let  Vera  comfort  you. 

[She  kneels  by  his  chair,  tries  to  put  her  arms  round 

him] 

DAVID  [Shuddering] 

Take   them   away !     Don't   you   feel   the   cold   dead 

pushing  between  us  ? 

VERA  [Unfaltering,  moving  his  face  toward  her  lips] 
Kiss  me  ! 


DAVID 

I  should  feel  the  blood  on  my  lips. 

VERA 

My  love  shall  wipe  it  out. 

DAVID 

Love  !     Christian  love  ! 

[He  unwinds  her  clinging  arms  ;  she  sinks  prostrate 

on  thejloor  as  he  rises.] 

For  this  I  gave  up  my  people — darkened  the  home 
that  sheltered  me — there  was  always  a  still,  small 
voice  at  my  heart  calling  me  back,  but  I  heeded 
nothing — only  the  voice  of  the  butcher's  daughter. 

\Brokenly] 
Let  me  go  home,  let  me  go  home. 

[He  looks  lingeringly  at  VERA'S  -prostrate  form,  but 

overcoming  the  instinct  to  touch  and  comfort  her, 

begins  tottering  with  uncertain  pauses  toward  the 

door  leading  to  the  hall.'] 

BARON  [Extending  his  arms  in  relief  and  longing] 

And  here  is  your  home,  Vera  ! 

[He  raises  her  gradually  from  the  floor ;  she 
is  dazed,  but  suddenly  she  becomes  conscious  oj 
whose  arms  she  is  in,  and  utters  a  cry  of  repul- 
sion] 

VERA 

Those  arms  reeking  from  that  crimson  river  1 

[She  falls  back.] 
158 


BARON  [Sullenly] 

Don't  echo  that  babble.  You  came  to  these  arms 
often  enough  when  they  were  fresh  from  the  battle- 
field. 

VERA 

But  not  from  the  shambles  !  You  heard  what  he 
called  you.  Not  soldier — butcher  !  Oh,  I  dared  to 
dream  of  happiness  after  my  nightmare  of  Siberia,  but 

you — you 

[She  breaks  down  for  the  first  time  in  hysterical  sobs.'] 

BARON  [Brokenly] 

Vera  !     Little  Vera  !     Don't  cry  !     You  stab  me  ! 

VERA 

You  thought  you  were  ordering  your  soldiers  to  fire 
at  the  Jews,  but  it  was  my  heart  they  pierced 
[She  sobs  on.] 

BARON 

.  .  .  And  my  own.  .  .  .  But  we  will  comfort  each 
other.  I  will  go  to  the  Tsar  myself — with  my  fore- 
head to  the  earth — to  beg  for  your  pardon  !  .  .  . 
Come,  put  your  wet  face  to  little  father's.  .  .  . 

VERA  [Violently  pushing  his  face  away] 

I  hate  you  !  I  curse  the  day  I  was  born  your  daughter  ! 
[She  staggers  toward  the  door  leading  to  the  interior. 
At  the  same  moment  DAVID,  who  has  reached  the 
door  leading  to  the  hall,  now  feeling  subconsciously 
that  VERA  is  going  and  that  his  last  reason  for 


lingering  on  is  removed,  turns  the  door-handle.  The 
dick  attracts  the  BARON'S  attention,  he  veers 
round, .] 

BARON  [To  DAVID] 

Halt! 

[DAVID  turns  mechanically.  VERA  drifts  out  through 
her  door,  leaving  the  two  men  face  to  face.  The 
BARON  beckons  to  DAVID,  who  as  if  hypnotised  moves 
nearer.  The  BARON  whips  out  his  -pistol,  slowly 
crosses  to  DAVID,  who  stands  as  if  awaiting  his  fate. 
The  BARON  hands  the  -pistol  to  DAVID.] 

You  were  right  ! 

[He  steps  back  swiftly  with  a  touch  of  stern  heroism 
into  the  attitude  of  the  culprit  at  a  military  execu- 
tion, awaiting  the  bullet.~\ 

Shoot  me  ! 

DAVID  [Takes  the  pistol  mechanically,  looks  long  and 
pensively  at  it  as  with  a  sense  of  its  irrelevance. 
Gradually  his  arm  droops  and  lets  the  pistol  fall 
on  the  table,  and  there  his  hand  touches  a  string  of 
his  violin,  which  yields  a  little  note.  Thus  reminded 
of  it,  he  picks  up  the  violin,  and  as  his  fingers  draw 
out  the  broken  string  he  murmurs~\ 

I  must  get  a  new  string. 

[He  resumes  his  dragging  march  toward  the  door, 
repeating  maunderingly] 

I  must  get  a  new  string. 
[The  curtain  falls.] 


1 60 


Act  IV 

Satut  lay,  July  4,  evening.  The  Roof-Garden  of  the 
Settlement  House,  showing  a  beautiful,  far-stretching 
panorama  of  New  York,  with  its  irregular  sky- 
buildings  on  the  left,  and  the  harbour  with  its  Statue 
of  Liberty  on  the  right.  Everything  is  wet  and 
gleaming  after  rain.  Para-pet  at  the  back.  Elevator 
on  the  right.  Entrance  from  the  stairs  on  the  left. 
In  the  sky  hang  heavy  clouds  through  which  thin, 
golden  lines  of  sunset  are  just  beginning  to  labour. 
DAVID  is  discovered  on  a  bench,  bugging  his  violin- 
case  to  his  breast,  gating  moodily  at  the  sky.  A 
muffled  sound  of  applause  comes  up  from  below  and 
continues  with  varying  intensity  through  the  early 
part  of  the  scene.  Through  it  comes  the  noise  of  the 
elevator  ascending.  MENDEL  steps  out  and  hurries 
forward. 

MENDEL 

Come  down,  David  !     Don't  you  hear  them  shouting 
for  you  ? 

[He  passes  his  hand  over  the  wet  benchJ\ 
Good  heavens  !     You  will  get  rheumatic  fever  ! 

DAVID 

Why  have  you  followed  me  ? 

MENDEL 

Get  up — everything  is  still  damp. 

DAVID  [Rising,  gloomily] 

Yes,  there's  a  damper  over  everything. 

161  L 


MENDEL 

Nonsense — the  rain  hasn't  damped  your  triump  i  in 
the  least.  In  fact,  the  more  delicate  effects  woridn't 
have  gone  so  well  in  the  open  air.  Listen  ! 

DAVID 

Let  them  shout.     Who  told  you  I  was  up  here  ? 

MENDEL 

Miss  Revendal,  of  course. 

DAVID  [Agitated} 

Miss  Revendal  ?     How  should  she  know  ? 

MENDEL  [Sullenly] 

She  seems  to  understand  your  crazy  ways. 

DAVID  [Passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes] 

Ah,  you  never  understood  me,  uncle.  .  .  .  How  did 

she  look  ?     Was  she  pale  ? 

MENDEL 

Never  mind  about  Miss  Revendal.  Pappelmeister 
wants  you — the  people  insist  on  seeing  you.  Nobody 
can  quiet  them. 

DAVID 

They  saw  me  all  through  the  symphony  in  my  place 
in  the  orchestra. 

MENDEL 

They  didn't  know  you  were  the  composer  as  well 
162 


as  the  first  violin.  Now  Miss  Revendal  has  told 
them. 

[Louder  applause  J\ 

There  !  Eleven  minutes  it  has  gone  on — like  for 
an  office-seeker.  You  must  come  and  show  yourself. 

DAVID 

I  won't — I'm  not  an  office-seeker.  Leave  me  to  my 
misery. 

MENDEL 

Your    misery  ?     With    all    this    glory    and    greatness 

opening  before  you  ?     Wait  till  you're  my  age 

[Shouts  of  "  QUIXANO  !  "] 
You  hear  !     What  is  to  be  done  with  them  ? 

DAVID 

Send  somebody  on  the  platform  to  remind  them  this 
is  the  interval  for  refreshments  ! 

MENDEL 

Don't  be  cynical.  You  know  your  dearest  wish  was 
to  melt  these  simple  souls  with  your  music.  And 
now 

DAVID 

Now  I  have  only  made  my  own  stony. 

MENDEL 

You  are  right.     You  are  stone  all  over — ever  since 
you  came  back  home  to  us.     Turned  into  a  pillar  of 
salt,  mother  says — like  Lot's  wife. 
163 


DAVID 

That  was  the  punishment  for  looking  backward.  Ah, 
uncle,  there's  more  sense  in  that  old  Bible  than 
the  Rabbis  suspect.  Perhaps  that  is  the  secret  of 
our  people's  paralysis — we  are  always  looking  back- 
ward. 

[He    drops    hopelessly    into    an    iron    garden-chair 

behind  him.] 

MENDEL  [Stopping  him  before  he  touches  the  seat] 
Take  care — it's  sopping  wet.     You  don't  look  back- 
ward enough. 

[He  takes  out  his  handkerchief  and  begins  drying 

the  chair.] 

DAVID  [Faintly  smiling] 

I  thought  you  wanted  the  salt  to  melt. 

MENDEL 

It  is  melting  a  little  if  you  can  smile.  Do  you  know, 
David,  I  haven't  seen  you  smile  since  that  Purim 
afternoon  ? 

DAVID 

You  haven't  worn  a  false  nose  since,  uncle. 

[He  laughs  bitterly.'] 

Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Fancy  masquerading  in  America 
because  twenty-five  centuries  ago  the  Jews  escaped  a 
pogrom  in  Persia.  Two  thousand  five  hundred  years 
ago  !  Aren't  we  uncanny  ? 

[He  drops  into  the  wiped  chair.] 
164 


MENDEL  [Angrily] 

Better  you  should  leave  us  altogether  than  mock  at 
us.  I  thought  it  was  your  Jewish  heart  that  drove 
you  back  home  to  us ;  but  if  you  are  still  hankering 
after  Miss  Revendal 

DAVID  [Pained] 
Uncle  ! 

MENDEL 

I'd  rather  see  you  marry  her  than  go  about  like  this. 
You  couldn't  make  the  house  any  gloomier. 

DAVID 

Go  back  to  the  concert,  please.  They  have  quieted 
down. 

MENDEL  [Hesitating] 
And  you  ? 

DAVID 

Oh,  I'm  not  playing  in  the  popular  after-pieces. 
Pappelmeister  guessed  I'd  be  broken  up  with  the 
stress  of  my  own  symphony — he  has  violins  enough. 

MENDEL 

Then  you  don't  want  to  carry  this  about. 
[Taking  the  violin  from  DAVID'S  arms.] 

DAVID  [Clinging  to  it] 

Don't  rob  me  of  my  music — it's  all  I  have. 

165 


MENDEL 

You'll  spoil  it  in  the  wet.     I'll  take  it  home. 

DAVID 

No 

[He  suddenly  catches  sight  of  two  figures  entering 
from  the  left — FRAU  QUIXANO  and  KATHLEEN  claa 
in  their  best,  and  wearing  tiny  American  flags  in 
honour  of  Independence  Day.  KATHLEEN  escorts 
the  old  lady,  with  the  air  of  a  guardian  angel,  on 
her  slow,  tottering  course  toward  DAVID.  FRAU 
QUIXANO  is  puffing  and  panting  after  the  many 
stairs.  DAVID  jumps  up  in  surprise,  releases  the 
violin-case  to  MENDEL.] 

They  at  my  symphony  ! 

MENDEL 

Mother  would  come — even  though,  being  Shabbos, 
she  had  to  walk. 

DAVID 

But  wasn't  she  shocked  at  my  playing  on  the 
Sabbath  ? 

MENDEL 

No — that's  the  curious  part  of  it.  She  said  that  even 
as  a  boy  you  played  your  fiddle  on  Shabbos,  and  that 
if  the  Lord  has  stood  it  all  these  years,  He  must 
consider  you  an  exception. 

DAVID 

You  see  !  She's  more  sensible  than  you  thought. 
1 66 


I  daresay  whatever  I  were  to  do  she'd  consider  me  an 
exception. 

MENDEL  [In  sullen  acquiescence] 
I  suppose  geniuses  are. 

KATHLEEN  [Reaching  them  ;  'panting  with  admira- 
tion and  breathlessness] 

Oh,   Mr.   David  !   it   was  like   midnight   mass  !     But 
the  misthress  was  ashleep. 

DAVID 

Asleep  ! 

[Laughs  half -merrily ,  half-sadlyJ] 
Ha  !     Ha  !     Ha  ! 

FRAU  QUIXANO  [Panting  and  laughing  in  response] 
He  !  He  !  He  !    Dovidel  lachtwidder.     He  !  He  !  He  ! 

[She  touches  his  arm  affectionately,  but  feeling  his 

wet  coat,  utters  a  cry  of  horror.] 
Du  bist  nass  ! 

DAVID 

Es  ist  gor  nicht,  Granny — my  clothes  are  thick. 

[She  fusses  over  him,  wiping  him  down  with   her 
gloved  handJ] 

MENDEL 

But  what  brought  you  up  here,  Kathleen  ? 

KATHLEEN 

Sure,  not  the  elevator.   The  misthress  said  'twould  be 

breaking  the  Shabbos  to  ride  up  in  it. 

167 


DAVID  [Uneasily] 

But  did — did  Miss  Revendal  send  you  up  ? 

KATHLEEN 

And  who  else  should  be  axin'  the  misthress  if  she 
wasn't  proud  of  Mr.  David  ?  Faith,  she's  a  sweet 
lady. 

MENDEL  [Impatiently] 
Don't  chatter,  Kathleen. 

KATHLEEN 

But,  Mr.  Quixano ! 

DAVID  [Sweetly] 

Please  take  your  mistress  down  again — don't  let  her 

walk. 

KATHLEEN 

But  Shabbos  isn't  out  yet ! 

MENDEL 
Chattering  again ! 

DAVID  [Gently] 

There's   no  harm,    Kathleen,  in  going  down  in  the 

elevator. 

KATHLEEN 

Troth,  I'll  egshplain  to  her  that  droppin'  down  isn't 

ridin'. 

1 68 


DAVID  [Smiling] 

Yes,   tell  her   dropping  down  is   natural — not   work, 

like  flying  up. 

[Kathleen  begins  to  move  toward  the  stairs,  explain- 
ing tO  FRAU  QUIXANO.] 

And,  Kathleen  !     You'll  get  her  some  refreshments. 

KATHLEEN  [Turns,  glaring} 

Refrishments,  is  it  ?  Give  her  refrishments  where 
they  mix  the  mate  with  the  butther  plates  !  Oh, 
Mr.  David  ! 

[She  moves  off  toward  the    stairs    in    reproachful 

sorrow.] 

MENDEL  [Smiling] 
I'll  get  her  some  coffee. 

DAVID  [Smiling] 

Yes,  that'll  keep  her  awake.  Besides,  Pappelmeister 
was  so  sure  the  people  wouldn't  understand  me,  he's 
relaxing  them  on  Gounod  and  Rossini. 

MENDEL 

Pappelmeister's   idea   of  relaxation  !     /   should   have 

given  them  comic  opera. 

\With  sudden  call  to  KATHLEEN,  who  with  her  mis- 
tress is  at  the  wrong  exit.} 

Kathleen  !     The  elevator's  this  side  ! 

KATHLEEN  [Turning] 

What  way  can  that  bb,  when  I  came  up  this  side  ? 

169 


MENDEL 

You  chatter  too  much. 

[FRAU  QUIXANO,  not  understanding,  exit] 
Come  this  way.     Can't  you  see  the  elevator  ? 

KATHLEEN  [Perceives  FRAU  QUIXANO  has  gone,  calls 
after  her  in  Irish-sounding  Yiddish] 

Wu  geht  Ihr,  bedad  ?  .  .  . 
[Impatiently] 

Houly  Moses,  komm?  zurick  ! 

[Exit  anxiously,  re-enter  with  FRAU  QUIXANO.] 

Begorra,  we  Jews  never  know  our  way. 

[MENDEL*  carrying  the  violin,  escorts  his  mother  and 
KATHLEEN  to  the  elevator.  When  they  are  near  it, 
it  stops  with  a  thud,  and  PAPPELMEISTER  springs 
out,  his  umbrella  up,  meeting  them  face  to  face.  He 
looks  happy  and  beaming  over  DAVID'S  triumph ] 

PAPPELMEISTER  [In  loud,  joyous  voice] 

Nun,  Frau   Quixano,  was  sagen  Sie  ?    Vat  you  tink 

of  your  David  ? 

FRAU  QUIXANO 

Dovid  ?    Er  ist  meshuggah. 
[She  taps  her  forehead] 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Puzzled,  to  MENDEL] 
Meshuggah  !    Vat  means*  meshuggah  ?     Crazy  ? 

MENDEL  [Half-smiling] 

You've  struck  it.     She  says  David  doesn't  know  enough 

to  go  in  out  of  the  rain. 

[General  laughter] 
170 


DAVID  [Rising] 

But  it's  stopped  raining,  Herr  Pappelmeister.     You 
don't  want  your  umbrella. 
{General  laughter.] 

PAPPELMEISTER 
So. 

[Shuts  it  down.] 

MENDEL 

Herein,  Mutter. 

[He    pushes    FRAU    QUIXANO'S    somewhat    shrinking 
form   into   the  elevator.       KATHLEEN  follows,    then 

MENDEL.] 

Herr  Pappelmeister,  we  are  all  your  grateful  servants. 
[PAPPELMEISTER  bows  ;  the  gates  close ,  the  elevator 
descends^ 

DAVID 

And  you  won't  think  me  ungrateful  for  running 
away — you  know  my  thanks  are  too  deep  to  be 
spoken. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  zo  are  my  congratulations ! 

DAVID 

Then,  don't  speak  them,  please. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

But  you  must  come  and  speak  to  all  de  people  in 

America  who  undershtand  music. 

171 


DAVID  [Half-smiling} 
To  your  four  connoisseurs  ? 

[Seriously] 

Oh,  please  !  I  really  could  not  meet  strangers, 
especially  musical  vampires. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Half- star  tied,  half-angry} 
Vampires  ?     Oh,  come  ! 

DAVID 

Voluptuaries,  then — rich,  idle  aesthetes  to  whom  art 
and  life  have  no  connection,  parasites  who  suck  our 
music 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Laughs  good-naturedly} 
Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !     Vait  till  you  hear  vat  dey  say. 

DAVID 

I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  like. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Den  I  like  to  tell  you  now. 

[He  roars  with  mischievous  laughter} 
Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha  !     De  first  vampire  says  it  is  a  great 
vork,  but  poorly  performed. 

DAVID  [Indignant} 
Oh 

PAPPELMEISTER 

De  second  vampire  says  it  is  a  poor  vork,  but  greatly 

performed. 

172 


DAVID  [Disappointed] 
Oh! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

De  dird  vampire  says  it  is  a  great  vork  greatly  per- 
formed. 

DAVID  [Complacently] 
Ah! 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  de  fourz  vampire  says  it  is  a  poor  vork  poorly 
performed. 

DAVID  [Angry  and  disappointed] 
Oh! 

[Then  smiling] 
You  see  you  have  to  go  by  the  people  after  all. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Shakes  head,  smiling] 

Nein.     Ven   critics    disagree — I    agree   mit   mineself. 

Ha!   Ha!   Ha! 

[He  slaps  DAVID  on  the  back.] 

A  great  vork  dat  vill  be  even  better  performed  next 
time  !     Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !     Ten  dousand  congratulations. 

[He  seizes  DAVID'S  hand  and  grips  it  heartily. ~] 

DAVID 

Don't  !     You  hurt  me. 

PAPPELMEISTER    [Dropping    DAVID'S    hand,— mis- 
Bunder  standing] 

Pardon  !   I  forgot  your  vound. 
173 


DAVID 

No — no — what  does  my  wound  matter  ?  That  never 
stung  half  so  much  as  these  clappings  and  congratu- 
lations. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Puzzled  but  solicitous] 

I  knew  your  nerves  vould  be  all  shnapping  like  fiddle- 

sht rings.     Oh,  you  cheniuses  ! 

[Smiling.] 
You  like  neider  de  clappings  nor  de  criticisms, — was? 

DAVID 

They  are  equally — irrelevant.  One  has  to  wrestle 
with  one's  own  art,  one's  own  soul,  alone  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Patting  him  soothingly] 
I  am  glad  I  did  not  let  you  blay  in  Part  Two. 

DAVID 

Dear  Herr  Pappelmeister  !  Don't  think  I  don't  appre- 
ciate all  your  kindnesses — you  are  almost  a  father  to 
me. 

PAPPELMEISTER 

And  you  disobey  me  like  a  son.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Veil,  I  vill  make  your  excuses  to  de — vampires.  Ha  ! 
Ha  !  Also,  David. 

[He  lays  his  hand  again  affectionately  on  DAVID'S 

right  shoulder] 
Lebe  wohl !     I  must  go  down  to  my  popular  classics. 

[  Gloomily] 

Truly  a  going  down  !     Was  ? 
'74 


DAVID  [Smiling] 

Oh,  it  isn't  such  a  descent  as  all  that.     Uncle  said 

you  ought  to  have  giveri  them  comic  opera. 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Shuddering  convulsively] 
Comic  opera.   .   .  .  Ouf  ! 

[He  goes   toward   the  elevator  and  rings   the  bell. 

'Then  he  turns  to  DAVID.] 
Vat  vas  dat  vor-d,  David  ? 

DAVID 

What  word  ? 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Groping  for  it] 

Mega — megasshu  .  .  . 

DAVID  [Puzzled] 
Megasshu  ? 

[The  elevator  comes  up  ;  the  gates  open.] 

PAPPELMEISTER 

Megusshah  !    You  know. 

[He  taps  his  forehead  with  his  umbrella.] 

DAVID 

Ah,  meshuggah  ! 

PAPPELMEISTER  [Joyously] 
Ja,  meshuggah  ! 

[He  gives  a  great  roar  of  laughter] 
Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 

[He  waves  umbrella  at  DAVID.] 


Well,  don't  be  ...  meshuggah. 

[He  steps  into  the  elevator.] 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

[The  gates  close,  and  it  descends  with  his  laughter] 

DAVID  [After  a  pause} 

Perhaps  I  am  .  .  .  meshuggah. 

[He  walks  up  and  down  moodily,  approaches  the 
parapet  at  back] 

Dropping  down  is  indeed  natural. 
[He  looks  over.] 

How  it  tugs  and  drags  at  one  ! 

[He  moves  back  resolutely  and  shakes  his  head] 

That  would  be  even  a  greater  descent  than  Pappel- 

meister's  to  comic   opera.     One  must  fly  upward — 

somehow. 

[He  drops  on  the  chair  that  MENDEL  dried.  A  faint 
music  steals  up  and  makes  an  accompaniment  to 
all  the  rest  of  the  scene] 

Ah  !   the  popular  classics  ! 

[His  head  sinks  on  a  little  table.  The  elevator 
comes  up  again,  but  he  does  not  raise  his  head. 
VERA,  pale  and  sad,  steps  out  and  walks  gently  over 
to  him  ;  stands  looking  at  him  with  maternal  pity  ; 
then  decides  not  to  disturb  him  and  is  stealing  away 
when  suddenly  he  looks  up  and  perceives  her  and 
springs  to  his  feet  with  a  dazed  glad  cry] 

Vera! 

VERA  [Turns,  speaks  with  grave  dignity] 

Miss  Andrews  has  charged  me  to  convey  to  you  the 

heart-felt  thanks  and  congratulations  of  the  Settlement. 

176 


DAVID  [Frozen] 

Miss  Andre w«  '?  verv  kind.  ...  I  trust  you  are  well. 

VERA 

Thank  you,  Mr.  Quixano.     Very  well  and  very  busy. 
So  you'll  excuse  me. 
[She  turns  to  go.] 

DAVID 

Certainly.  .  .  .  How  are  your  folks  ? 

VERA  [Turns  her  head} 

They  are  gone  back  to  Russia.     And  yours  ? 

DAVID 

You  just  saw  them  all. 

VERA  [Confused] 

Yes — yes — of    course — I    forgot !     Good-bye,    Mr. 

Quixano. 

DAVID 

Good-bye,  Miss  Revendal. 

[He  drops  back  on  the  chair.     VERA  walks  to  the 
elevator,  then  just  before  ringing  turns  again.] 

VERA 

I  shouldn't  advise  you  to  sit  here  in  the  damp. 

DAVID 

My  uncle  dried  the  chair. 
[Bitterly] 

177  M 


Curious  how  every  one  is  concerned  about  my  body 
and  no  one  about  my  soul. 

VERA 

Because  your  soul  is  so  much  stronger  than  your 
body.  Why,  think  !  It  has  just  lifted  a  thousand 
people  far  higher  than  this  roof-garden. 

DAVID 

Please  don't  you  congratulate  me,  too  !  That  would 
be  too  ironical. 

VERA  [Agitated,  coming  nearer] 

Irony,  Mr.  Quixano  ?     Please,  please,  do  not  imagine 

there  is  any  irony  in  my  congratulations. 

DAVID 

The  irony  is  in  all  the  congratulations.  How  can 
I  endure  them  when  I  know  what  a  terrible  failure 
1  have  made  ! 

VERA 

Failure  !  Because  the  critics  are  all  divided  ?  That 
is  the  surest  proof  of  success.  You  have  produced 
something  real  and  new. 

DAVID 

1  am  not  thinking  of  Pappelmeister's  connoisseurs 
— /  am  the  only  connoisseur,  the  only  one  who  knows. 
And  every  bar  of  my  music  cried  "  Failure  !  Failure  !  " 
It  shrieked  from  the  violins,  blared  from  the  trombones, 
thundered  from  the  drums.  It  was  written  on  all 

the  faces 

178 


VERA  [Vehemently,  coming  still  nearer] 
Oh,  no  !  no  !  I  watched  the  faces — those  faces  of 
toil  and  sorrow,  those  faces  from  many  lands.  They 
were  fired  by  your  vision  of  their  coming  brotherhood, 
lulled  by  your  dream  of  their  land  of  rest.  And  I 
could  see  that  you  were  right  in  speaking  to  the 
people.  In  some  strange,  beautiful  way  the  inner 
meaning  of  your  music  stole  into  all  those  simple 
souls 

DAVID  [Springing  up] 

And  my  soul  ?  What  of  my  soul  ?  False  to  its  own 
music,  its  own  mission,  its  own  dream.  That  is  what 
I  mean  by  failure,  Vera.  I  preached  of  God's  Crucible, 
this  great  new  continent  that  could  melt  up  all  race- 
differences  and  vendettas,  that  could  purge  and 
re-create,  and  God  tried  me  with  his  supremest  test. 
He  gave  me  a  heritage  from  the  Old  World,  hate  and 
vengeance  and  blood,  and  said,  "  Cast  it  all  into  my 
Crucible."  And  I  said,  "  Even  thy  Crucible  cannot 
melt  this  hate,  cannot  drink  up  this  blood."  And 
so  I  sat  crooning  over  the  dead  past,  gloating  over 
the  old  blood-stains — I,  the  apostle  of  America,  the 
prophet  of  the  God  of  our  children.  Oh — how  my 
music  mocked  me  !  And  you — so  fearless,  so  high 
above  fate — how  you  must  despise  me  ! 

VERA 

I  ?     Ah  no  ! 

DAVID 

You  must.  You  do.  Your  words  still  sting.  Were 
179 


it  seven  seas  between  us,  you  said,  our  love  must 
cross  them.  And  I — I  who  had  prated  of  seven 
seas 

VERA 

Not  seas  of  blood — I  spoke  selfishly,  thoughtlessly. 
I  had  not  realised  that  crimson  flood.  Now  I  see  it 
day  and  night.  O  God  ! 

[She  shudders  and  covers  her  eyes.~\ 

DAVID 

There  lies  my  failure — to  have  brought  it  to  your 
eyes,  instead  of  blotting  it  from  my  own. 

VERA 

No  man  could  have  blotted  it  out. 

DAVID 

Yes — by  faith  in  the  Crucible.  From  the  blood  of 
battlefields  spring  daisies  and  buttercups.  In  the 
divine  chemistry  the  very  garbage  turns  to  roses. 
But  in  the  supreme  moment  my  faith  was  found 
wanting.  You  came  to  me — and  I  thrust  you 
away. 

VERA 

I  ought  not  to  have  come  to  you.  ...  I  ought  not 

to  have  come  to  you  to-day.     We  must  not  meet 

again. 

DAVID 

Ah,  you  cannot  forgive  me  ! 
180 


VERA 

Forgive  ?  It  is  I  that  should  go  down  on  my  knees 
for  my  father's  sin. 

[She  is  half-sinking  to  her  knees.     He  stops  her  by 

a  gesture  and  a  cry.~\ 

DAVID 

No  !  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  not  be  visited  on 
the  children. 

VERA 

My  brain  follows  you,  but  not  my  heart.  It  is  heavy 
with  the  sense  of  unpaid  debts — debts  that  can  only 
cry  for  forgiveness. 

DAVID 

You  owe  me  nothing 

VERA 

But  my  father,  my  people,  my  country.  .  .  . 

[She  breaks  down.     Recovers  herself ,] 
My  only  consolation  is,  you  need  nothing. 

DAVID  [Dazed] 
I — need — nothing  ? 

VERA 

Nothing  but  your  music  .  .  .  your  dreams. 

DAVID 

And  your  love  f     Do  I  not  need  that  ? 
181 


VERA  [Shaking  her  bead  sadly\ 

No. 

DAVID 

You  say  that  because  I  have  forfeited  it. 

VERA 

It  is  my  only  consolation,  I  tell  you,  that  you  do  not 
need  me.  In  our  happiest  moments  a  suspicion  of 
this  truth  used  to  lacerate  me.  But  now  it  is  my 
one  comfort  in  the  doom  that  divides  us.  See  how 
you  stand  up  here  above  the  world,  alone  and  self- 
sufficient.  No  woman  could  ever  have  more  than  the 
second  place  in  your  life. 

DAVID 

But  you  have  the  first  place,  Vera  ! 

VERA  [Shakes  her  head  again] 

No — I  no  longer  even  desire  it.     I  have  gotten  over 

that  womanly  weakness. 

DAVID 

You  torture  me.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

VERA 

What  can  be  simpler  ?  I  used  to  be  jealous  of  your 
music,  your  prophetic  visions.  I  wanted  to  come  first 
— before  them  all !  Now,  dear  David,  I  only  pray 
that  they  may  fill  your  life  to  the  brim. 

DAVID 

But  they  cannot. 

182 


VERA 

They  will — have  faith  in  yourself,  in  your  mission — 
good-bye. 

DAVID  [Dazed} 

You  love  me  and  you  leave  me  ? 

VERA 

What  else  can  I  do  ?  Shall  the  shadow  of  Kishineff 
hang  over  all  your  years  to  come  ?  Shall  I  kiss  you 
and  leave  blood  upon  your  lips,  cling  to  you  and  be 
pushed  away  by  all  those  cold,  dead  hands  ? 

DAVID  [Taking  both  her  hands] 
Yes,  cling  to  me,  despite  them  all,  cling  to  me  till  all 
these  ghosts  are  exorcised,  cling  to  me  till  our  love 
triumphs  over  death.     Kiss  me,  kiss  me  now. 

VERA  [Resisting,  drawing  back] 

I  dare  not !     It  will  make  you  remember. 

DAVID 

It  will  make  me  forget.     Kiss  me. 

[There  is  a  pause  of  hesitation,  filled  up  by  the 
Cathedral  music  from  "  Faust "  surging  up  softly 
from  below.] 

VERA  [Slowly] 

I  will  kiss  you  as  we  Russians  kiss  at  Easter — the  three 

kisses  of  peace. 

[She  kisses  him  three  times  on   the  mouth  as  in 

ritual  solemnity, ,] 
183 


DAVID  [Fery  calmly} 

Easter  was  the  date  of  the  massacre — see  !     I  am  at 

peace. 

VERA 

God  grant  it  endure  ! 

[They  stand  quietly  hand  in  hand.~\ 

Look  !  How  beautiful  the  sunset  is  after  the  storm  ! 
[DAVID  turns.  The  sunset,  which  has  begun  to  grow 
beautiful  just  after  VERA'S  entrance,  has  now  reached 
its  most  magnificent  moment ;  below  there  are 
narrow  lines  of  saffron  and  -pale  gold,  but  above  the 
whole  sky  is  one  glory  of  burning  flame} 

DAVID  [Prophetically  exalted  by  the  spectacle] 
It  is  the  fires  of  God  round  His  Crucible. 

[He  drops  her  hand  and  points  downward} 
There  she  lies,  the  great  Melting  Pot — listen  !    Can't 
you    hear    the    roaring    and    the    bubbling  ?     There 
gapes  her  mouth 

[He  points  east} 

— the  harbour  where  a  thousand  mammoth  feeders 
come  from  the  ends  of  the  world  to  pour  in  their 
human  freight.  Ah,  what  a  stirring  and  a  seething  ! 
Celt  and  Latin,  Slav  and  Teuton,  Greek  and  Syrian, 
— black  arid  yellow- 

VERA  [Softly,  nestling  to  him} 
Jew  and  Gentile 

DAVID 

Yes,  East  and  West,  and  North  and  South,  the  palm 
184 


and  the  pine,  the  pole  and  the  equator,  the  crescent 
and  the  cross — how  the  great  Alchemist  melts  and 
fuses  them  with  his  purging  flame  !  Here  shall  they 
all  unite  to  build  the  Republic  of  Man  and  the  King- 
dom of  God.  Ah,  V-.  i,  what  is  the  glory  of  Rome 
and  Jerusalem  where  all  nations  and  races  come  to 
worship  and  look  back,  compared  with  the  glory  of 
America,  where  all  races  and  nations  come  to  labour 
and  look  forward  ! 

[He  raises  his  hands  in  benediction  over  the  shining 
city.] 

Peace,  peace,  to  all  ye  unborn  millions,  fated  to  fill 
this  giant  continent — the  God  of  our  children  give 
you  Peace. 

[An  instant's  solemn  pause.  The  sunset  is  swiftly 
Jading,  and  the  vast  panorama  is  suffused  with  a 
more  restful  twilight,  to  which  the  many- gleaming 
lights  of  the  town  add  the  tender  poetry  of  the  night. 
Far  back,  like  a  lonely,  guiding  star,  twinkles  over 
the  darkening  water  the  torch  of  the  Statue  of 
Liberty.  From  below  comes  up  the  softened  sound 
of  voices  and  instruments  joining  in  "  My  Country, 
'tis  of  Thee."  The  curtain  jails  slowly] 


185 


APPENDIX  A 

THE  MELTING  POT   IN  ACTION 

ALIENS  ADMITTED  TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  IN  THE 
ENDED  JUNE  3OTH,  1913 


YEAR 


African  (black) 

9,734 

Brought  forward 

875,975 

Armenian    . 

9,554 

Japanese 

11,672 

Bohemianand  Mo- 

Korean 

74 

ravian 

11,852 

Lithuanian  . 

25,529 

Bulgarian,  Servian, 

Magyar 

Montenegrin     . 

10,083 

Mexican 

15,495 

Chinese 

3,487 

Pacific  Islander    . 

27 

Croatian  and  Sla- 

Polish 

185,207 

vonian 

44,754 

Portuguese  . 

14,631 

Cuban 

6,121 

Roumanian 

14,780 

Dalmatian,      Bos- 

Russian 

58,380 

nian,  Herzegovi- 

Ruthenian    (Russ- 

nian 

4,775 

niak) 

39,4°5 

Dutch  and  Flemish 

18,746 

Scandinavian 

51,650 

East  Indian 

233 

Scotch 

3i,434 

English 

100,062 

Slovak 

29,094 

Finnish 

14,920 

Spanish 

15,017 

French 

26,509 

Spanish-American 

3,4°9 

German 

101,764 

Syrian 

10,019 

Greek 

4°,933 

Turkish 

2,132 

Hebrew 

105,826 

Welsh 

3,922 

Irish   . 

48,103 

West    Indian   (ex- 

Italian (north) 

54,171 

cept  Cuban) 

2,302 

Italian  (south) 

264,348 

Other  peoples 

3,5i2 

Carried  forward 

875,975 

Total    . 

1,427,227 

187 


APPENDIX  B 
THE  POGROM 

(I)  A  RUSSIAN  ON  ITS  REASONS 
[From  The  Nation,  November  15,  1913] 

IT  is  now  over  thirty  years  sinee  the  crew  of  the  sinking  ship 
of  Russian  absolutism  first  tried  this  unworthy  weapon  to  save 
their  failing  cause.  This  was  when  Plehve  organised  an  anti- 
Semitic  agitation  and  Jewish  pogroms  in  1883  in  South  Russia, 
where  the  Jews  formed  almost  the  only  merchant  class  in  the 
villages,  and  where  the  ignorant  peasants,  together  with  some 
crafty  Russian  tradesmen,  had  a  natural  grudge  against  them. 
The  result  was  that  the  prevailing  discontent  of  the  masses 
was  diverted  against  the  Jews.  A  large  public  meeting  of 
protest  was  organised  at  that  time  in  the  London  Mansion 
House,  the  Lord  Mayor  taking  the  chair.  English  public 
opinion  rightly  appreciated  the  value  of  this  criminal  method 
of  using  Jews  as  scapegoats  for  political  purposes.  Now  we  see 
merely  a  further,  and  let  us  hope  a  final,  development  of  the 
same  tactics.  They  have  been  used  on  many  occasions  since 
1883.  One  of  the  largest  Jewish  pogroms  of  the  latest  series 
in  Kishineff  in  1903  has  been  clearly  traced  to  the  same  expe- 
rienced hand  of  Plehve,  when  the  passive  attitude  of  the  local 
administration  and  the  military  was  explained  by  the  presence 
in  the  town  of  a  mysterious  colonel  of  the  Imperial  Gendarmerie 
who  arrived  with  secret  orders  and  a  large  supply  of  pogrom 
literature  from  St.  Petersburg,  and  who  organised  the  scum  of 
the  town  population  for  the  purpose  of  looting  and  killing 
Jews. 

The  repulsive  stories  of  further  pogroms  all  over  the  country 
immediately  after  the  issue  of  the  constitutional  manifesto  of 
1 88 


October  17,  1905,  are  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  civilised  world. 
At  that  time  anti-Semitic  doctrine  was  openly  preached,  not 
only  against  Jews,  but  against  the  whole  constitutional  and 
revolutionary  upheaval.  Pogroms  against  both  were  organised 
under  the  same  pretext  of  saving  the  Tsar,  the  orthodoxy,  and 
the  Fatherland.  Local  police  and  military  officials  had  secret 
orders  to  abstain  from  interference  with  the  looting  and  mur- 
dering of  Jews  or  "  their  hirelings."  Processions  of  peaceful 
citizens  and  children  were  trampled  down  by  the  Cossack 
horses,  and  the  Cossacks  received  formal  thanks  from  high 
quarters  for  their  excellent  exploits.  .  .  . 

N.    W.    TCHAYKOVSKY. 

(II)  A  NURSE  ON  ITS  RESULTS 

[From   Public  Health,   Nurses'   Quarterly,   Cleveland,   Ohio, 
October  1913] 

I  WAS  a  Red  Cross  nurse  on  the  battlefield. 

The  words  of  the  chief  doctor  of  the  Jewish  Hospital  of 
Odessa  still  ring  in  my  ears.  When  the  telephone  message 
came,  he  said,  "Moldvanko  is  running  in  blood  ;  send  nurses 
and  doctors."  This  meant  that  the  Pogrom  (massacre)  was 
going  on. 

Dr.  P came  into  the  wards  with  these  words  :  "  Sisters, 

there  is  no  time  for  weeping.  Those  who  have  no  one  depen- 
dent upon  them,  come.  Put  on  your  white  surgical  gowns, 
and  the  red  cross.  Make  ready  to  go  on  the  battlefield  at 
once.  God  knows  how  many  of  our  sisters  and  brothers  are 
already  killed."  Tears  were  just  running  down  his  cheeks  as 
he  spoke.  In  a  minute  twelve  nurses  and  eight  doctors  had 
volunteered.  There  was  one  Red  Cross  nurse  who  was  in  bed 
waiting  to  be  operated  on.  She  got  up  and  made  ready  too. 
Nobody  could  keep  her  from  going  with  us.  "  Where  my 
sisters  and  brothers  fall,  there  shall  I  fall,"  she  said,  and  with 
these  words,  jumped  into  the  ambulance  and  went  on  to  the 
City  Hospital  with  us.  There  they  had  better  equipment,  and 

189 


they  sent  out  three  times  as  many  nurses  as  the  Jewish  Hospital. 
At  the  City  Hospital  they  hung  silver  crosses  about  our  necks. 
We  wore  the  silver  crosses  so  that  we  would  not  be  recognised 
as  Jewish  by  the  Holiganes  (Hooligans). 

Then  we  went  to  Molorosiskia  Street  in  the  Moldvanko 
(slums).  We  could  not  see,  for  the  feathers  were  flying  like 
snow.  The  blood  was  already  up  to  our  ankles  on  the  pave- 
ment and  in  the  yards.  The  uproar  was  deafening  but  we 
could  hear  the  Holiganes'  fierce  cries  of  "  Hooray,  kill  the 
Jews,"  on  all  sides.  It  was  enough  to  hear  such  words.  They 
could  turn  your  hair  grey,  but  we  went  on.  We  had  no  time 
to  think.  All  our  thoughts  were  to  pick  up  wounded  ones,  and 
to  try  to  rescue  some  uninjured  ones.  We  succeeded  in 
rescuing  some  uninjured  who  were  in  hiding.  We  put  ban- 
dages on  them  to  make  it  appear  that  they  were  wounded. 
We  put  them  in  the  ambulance  and  carried  them  to  the 
hospital,  too.  So  at  the  Jewish  Hospital  we  had  five  thousand 
injured  and  seven  thousand  uninjured  to  feed  and  protect  for 
two  weeks.  Some  were  left  without  homes,  without  clothes, 
and  children  were  even  without  parents. 

My  dear  reader,  I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing  before  I  describe 
the  scenes  of  the  massacre  any  further  ;  do  not  think  that 
you  are  reading  a  r.tory  which  could  not  happen  !  No,  I  want 
you  to  know  that  everything  you  read  is  just  exactly  as  it 
was.  My  hair  is  a  little  grey,  but  I  am  surprised  it  is  not 
quite  white  after  what  I  witnessed. 

The  procession  of  the  Pogrom  was  led  by  about  ten  Catholic 
(Greek)  Sisters  with  about  forty  or  fifty  of  their  school  children. 
They  carried  ikons  or  pictures  of  Jesus  and  sang  "  God  Save 
the  Tsar."  They  were  followed  by  a  crowd  containing  hun- 
dreds of  men  and  women  murderers  yelling  "  Bey  Zhida," 
which  means  "  Kill  the  Jews."  With  these  words  they  ran 
into  the  yards  where  there  were  fifty  or  a  hundred  tenants. 
They  rushed  in  like  tigers.  Soon  they  began  to  throw  children 
out  of  the  windows  of  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  stories. 
They  would  take  a  poor,  innocent  six-months-old  baby,  who 
could  not  possibly  have  done  any  harm  in  this  world  and 
190 


throw  it  down  on  to  the  pavement.  You  can  imagine  it  could 
not  live  after  it  struck  the  ground,  but  this  did  not  satisfy  the 
stony-hearted  murderers.  They  then  rushed  up  to  the  child, 
seized  it  and  broke  its  little  arm  and  leg  bones  into  three  or 
four  pieces,  then  wrung  its  neck  too.  They  laughed  and 
yelled,  so  carried  away  with  pleasure  at  their  successful  work. 

I  do  wish  a  few  Americans  could  have  been  there  to  see, 
and  they  would  know  what  America  is,  and  what  it  means  to 
live  in  the  United  States.  It  wa;  not  enough  for  them  to  open 
up  a  woman's  abdomen  and  take  out  the  child  which  she 
carried,  but  they  took  time  to  stuff  the  abdomen  with  straw 
and  fill  it  up.  Can  you  imagine  human  beings  able  to  do  such 
things  ?  I  do  not  think  anybody  could,  because  I  could  not 
imagine  it  myself  when  a  few  years  before  I  read  the  news  of 
the  massacre  in  KishinefT,  but  now  I  have  seen  it  with  my 
own  eyes.  It  was  not  enough  for  them  to  cut  out  an  old 
man's  tongue  and  cut  off  his  nose,  but  they  drove  nails  into 
the  eyes  also.  You  wonder  how  they  had  enough  time  to 
carry  away  everything  of  value — money,  gold,  silver,  jewels — 
and  still  be  able  to  do  so  much  fancj;  killing,  but  oh,  my  friends, 
all  the  time  for  three  days  and  three  nights  was  theirs. 

The  last  day  and  nigh  it  poured  down  rain,  and  you  would 
think  that  might  stop  them,  but  no,  they  worked  just  as  hard 
as  ever.  We  could  wear  shoes  no  longer,  Our  feet  were 
swollen,  so  we  wore  rubbers  over  our  stockings,  and  in  this 
way  worked  until  some  power  was  able  to  stop  these  horrors. 
They  not  only  killed,  but  they  had  time  to  abuse  young  girls 
of  twelve  and  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  died  immediately 
after  being  operated  upon. 

I  remember  what  happened  to  my  own  class-mates.  They 
were  two  who  came  from  a  small  town  to  Odessa  to  become 
midwives.  These  girls  ran  to  the  school  to  hide  themselves 
as  it  was  a  government  school,  and  they  knew  the  Holiganes 
would  not  dare  to  come  in  there.  But  the  dean  of  the  school 
had  ordered  they  should  not  be  admitted,  because  they  were 
Jewish,  as  if  they  had  different  blood  running  in  their  veins. 


So  when  they  came,  the  watchman  refused  to  open  the  doors, 
according  to  his  instructions.  The  crowd  of  Holiganes  found 
them  outside  the  doors  of  the  hospital.  They  abused  them 
right  there  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  One  was  eighteen 
years  old  and  the  other  was  twenty.  One  died  after  the 
operation  and  the  other  went  insane  from  shame. 

Some  people  ask  why  the  Jews  did  not  leave  everything  and 
go  away.  But  how  could  they  go  and  where  could  they  go  ? 
The  murderers  were  scattered  throughout  the  Jewish  quarters. 
All  they  could  do  was  hide  where  they  were  in  the  cellars  and 
garrets.  The  Holiganes  searched  them  out  and  killed  them 
where  they  were  hidden.  Others  may  ask,  why  did  they  not 
resist  the  murderers  with  their  knives  and  pistols  ?  The  grown 
men  organised  by  the  second  day.  They  were  helped  by  the 
Vigilantes,  too,  who  brought  them  arms.  The  Vigilantes 
were  composed  of  students  at  the  University  and  high-school 
boys,  and  also  the  strongest  man  from  each  Jewish  family. 
There  were  a  good  many  Gentiles  among  the  students  who 
belonged  to  the  Vigilantes  because  they  wanted  justice.  So 
on  the  second  day  the  Vigilantes  stood  before  the  doors  and 
gave  resistance  to  the  murderers.  Some  will  ask  where  were 
the  soldiers  and  the  police  ?  They  were  sent  to  protect, 
but  on  arriving,  joined  in  with  the  murderers.  However,  the 
police  put  disguises  on  over  their  uniforms.  Later,  when 
they  were  brought  to  the  hospital  with  other  wounded,  we 
found  their  uniforms  underneath  their  disguises. 

When  the  Vigilantes  took  their  stations,  the  scene  was  like  a 
battlefield.  Bullets  were  flying  from  both  sides  of  the  Red 
Cross  carriages.  We  expected  to  be  killed  any  minute,  but 
notwithstanding,  we  rushed  wherever  there  were  shots  heard 
in  order  to  carry  away  the  wounded.  Whenever  we  arrived 
we  shouted  "  Red  Cross,  Red  Cross,"  in  order  to  help  make 
them  realise  we  were  not  Vigilantes.  Then  they  would  stop 
and  let  us  pick  up  the  wounded.  They  did  this  on  account 
of  their  own  wounded. 

The  Vigilantes  could  not  stop  the  butchery  entirely  because 
they  were  not  strong  enough  in  numbers.  On  the  fourth  day, 
192 


the  Jewish  people  of  Odessa,  through  Dr.  P ,  succeeded  in 

communicating  to  the  Mayor  of  a  different  State.  Soldiers 
from  outside,  strangers  to  the  murderers,  came  in  and  took 
charge  of  the  city.  The  city  was  put  under  martial  law  until 
order  could  be  restored. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  doctors  and  nurses  were  called  to  the 
cemetery,  where  there  were  four  hundred  unidentified  dead. 
Their  friends  and  relatives  who  came  to  search  for  them  were 
crazed  and  hysterical  and  needed  our  attention.  Wives  came 
to  look  for  husbands,  parents  hunting  children,  a  mother  for 
her  only  son,  and  so  on.  It  took  eight  days  to  identify  the 
bodies  and  by  that  time  four  hundred  of  the  wounded  had 
died,  and  so  we  had  eight  hundred  to  bury.  If  you  visit  Odessa, 
you  will  be  shown  two  long  graves,  about  one  hundred  feet 
long,  beside  the  Jewish  Cemetery.  There  lie  the  victims  of 
the  massacre.  Among  them  are  Gentile  Vigilantes  whose 
parents  asked  that  they  be  buried  with  the  Jew?.  .  .  . 

Another  case  I  knew  was  that  of  a  married  man.  He  left 
his  wife,  who  was  pregnant,  and  three  children,  to  go  on  a 
business  trip.  When  he  got  back  the  massacre  had  occurred. 
His  home  was  in  ruins,  his  family  gone.  He  went  to  the 
hospital,  then  to  the  cemetery.  There  he  found  his  wife  with 
her  abdomen  stuffed  with  straw,  and  his  three  children  dead. 
It  simply  broke  his  heart,  and  he  lost  his  mind.  But  he  was 
harmless,  and  was  to  be  seen  wandering  about  the  hospital  as 
though  in  search  of  some  one,  and  daily  he  grew  more  thin 
and  suffering. 

This  story  is  told  in  the  hope  that  Americans  will  appreciate 
the  safety  and  freedom  in  which  they  live  and  that  they  will 
help  others  to  gain  that  freedom. 


193 


APPENDIX  C 
THE  STORY  OF  DANIEL  MELSA 

ANOTHER  example  of  Nature  aping  Art  is  afforded  by  the 
romantic  story  of  Daniel  Melsa,  a  young  Russo-Jewish  violinist 
who  has  carried  audiences  by  storm  in  Berlin,  Paris  and  London, 
and  who  had  arranged  to  go  to  America  last  November.  The 
following  extract  from  an  interview  in  the  Jewish  Chronicle 
of  January  24,  1913,  shows  the  curious  coincidence  between 
his  beginnings  and  David  Quixano's : 

"  Melsa  is  not  yet  twenty  years  of  age,  but  he  looks  some- 
what older.  He  is  of  slight  build  and  has  a  sad  expression, 
which  increased  to  almost  a  painful  degree  when  recounting 
some  of  his  past  experiences.  He  seems  singularly  devoid  of 
any  affectation,  while  modesty  is  obviously  the  keynote  of 
his  nature. 

"  After  some  persuasion,  Melsa  put  aside  his  reticence,  and, 
complying  with  the  request,  outlined  briefly  his  career,  the 
early  part  of  which,  he  said,  was  overshadowed  by  a  great 
tragedy.  He  was  born  in  Warsaw,  and,  at  the  age  of  three, 
his  parents  moved  to  Lodz,  where  shortly  after  a  private  tutor 
was  engaged  for  him. 

'  '  Although  I  exhibited  a  passion  for  music  quite  early,  I 
did  not  receive  any  lessons  on  the  subject  till  my  seventh  birth- 
day, but  before  that  my  father  obtained  a  cheap  violin  for  me 
upon  which  I  was  soon  able  to  play  simple  melodies  by  ear.' 

"  By  chance  a  well-known  professor  of  the  town  heard  him 
play,  and  so  impressed  was  he  with  the  talent  exhibited  by 
the  boy  that  he  advised  the  father  to  have  him  educated. 
Acting  upon  this  advice,  as  far  as  limited  means  allowed,  tutors 
were  engaged,  and  so  much  progress  did  he  make  that  at  the 
age  of  nine  he  was  admitted  to  the  local  Conservatorium  of 


Professor  Grudzinski,  where  he  remained  two  years.     It  was 
at  the  age  of  eleven  that  a  great  calamity  overtook  the  family, 
his  father  and  sister  falling  victims  to  the  pogroms. 
"  Melsa's  story  runs  as  follows  : 

'  It  was  in  June  of  1905,  at  the  time  of  the  pogroms,  when 
one  afternoon  my  father,  accompanied  by  my  little  sister, 
ventured  out  into  the  street,  from  which  they  never  returned. 
They  were  both  killed,'  he  added  sadly,  '  by  Cossacks.  A 
week  later  I  found  my  sister  in  a  Christian  churchyard  riddled 
with  bullets,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  the  remains  of 
my  father,  who  must  have  been  buried  in  some  out-of-the-way 
place.  During  this  awful  period  my  mother  and  myself  lived 
in  imminent  danger  of  our  lives,  and  it  was  only  the  recollection 
of  my  playing  that  saved  us  also  falling  a  prey  to  the  vodka- 
besodden  Cossacks.' " 


195 


APPENDIX  D 
BEILIS  AND  AMERICA 

THE  close  relation  in  Jewish  thought  between  Russo-Jewish 
persecution  and  America  as  the  land  of  escape  from  it  is  well 
illustrated  by  the  recent  remarks  of  the  Jewish  Chronicle  on 
the  future  of  the  victim  of  the  Blood-Ritual  Prosecution  in 
KiefL  "  So  long  as  Beilis  continues  to  live  in  Russia,  his  life 
is  unsafe.  The  Black  Hundreds,  he  himself  says,  have  solemnly 
decided  on  his  death,  and  we  have  seen,  in  the  not  distant  past, 
that  they  can  carry  out  diabolical  plots  of  this  description  with 
complete  immunity.  .  .  .  He  would  gladly  go  to  America, 
provided  he  was  sure  of  a  living.  The  condition  should  not 
be  difficult  to  fulfil,  and  if  this  victim  of  a  barbarous  rtgime — 
we  cannot  say  latest  victim,  for,  as  we  write,  comes  the  news 
of  an  expulsion  order  against  1200  Jewish  students  of  Kiefl — 
should  find  a  home  and  place  under  the  sheltering  wing  of 
freedom,  it  would  be  a  fitting  ending  to  a  painful  chapter  in 
our  Jewish  history." 

That  it  is  the  natural  ending  even  the  Jew-baiting  Russian 
organ,  the  Novoe  Vremya,  indirectly  testifies,  for  it  has  published 
a  sneering  cartoon  representing  a  number  of  Jews  crowded  on 
the  Statue  of  Liberty  to  welcome  the  arrival  of  Beilis.  One 
wonders  that  the  Russian  censor  should  have  permitted  the 
masses  to  become  aware  that  Liberty  exists  on  earth,  if  only  in 
the  form  of  a  statue. 


196 


APPENDIX  E 
THE  ALIEN  IN  THE  MELTING  POT 

MR.  FREDERICK  J.  HASKIN  has  recently  published  in  the  Chicago 
Daily  News  the  following  graphic  summary  of  what  immigrants 
have  done  and  do  for  the  United  States  : 

I  am  the  immigrant. 

Since  the  dawn  of  creation  my  restless  feet  have  beaten  new 
paths  across  the  earth. 

My  uneasy  bark  has  tossed  on  all  seas. 

My  wanderlust  was  born  of  the  craving  for  more  liberty  and 
a  better  wage  for  the  sweat  of  my  face. 

I  looked  towards  the  United  States  with  eyes  kindled  by  the 
fire  of  ambition  and  heart  quickened  with  new-born  hope. 

I  approached  its  gates  with  great  expectation. 

I  entered  in  with  fine  hopes. 

I  have  shouldered  my  burden  as  the  American  man  of  all 
work. 

I  contribute  eighty-five  per  cent,  of  all  the  labour  in  the 
slaughtering  and  meat-packing  industries. 

I  do  seven-tenths  of  the  bituminous  coal  mining. 

I  do  seventy-eight  per  cent,  of  all  the  work  in  the  woollen 
mills. 

I  contribute  nine-tenths  of  all  the  labour  in  the  cotton  mills. 

I  make  nine-twentieths  of  all  the  clothing. 

I  manufacture  more  than  half  the  shoes. 

I  build  four-fifths  of  all  the  furniture. 

I  make  half  of  the  collars,  cuffs,  and  shirts. 

I  turn  out  four-fifths  of  all  the  leather. 

I  make  half  the  gloves. 

I  refine  nearly  nineteen-twentieths  of  the  sugar. 

I  make  half  of  the  tobacco  and  cigars. 
197 


And  yet,  I  am  the  great  American  problem. 

When  I  pour  out  my  blood  on  your  altar  of  labour,  and  lay 
down  my  life  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  god  of  toil,  men  make  no 
more  comment  than  at  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 

But  my  brawn  is  woven  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  the 
fabric  of  your  national  being. 

My  children  shall  be  your  children  and  your  land  shall  be 
my  land  because  my  sweat  and  my  blood  will  cement  the 
foundations  of  the  America  of  To-Morrow. 

If  I  can  be  fused  into  the  body  politic,  the  Melting-Pot  will 
have  stood  the  supreme  test. 


xoS 


Afterword 


The  Melting  Pot  is  the  third  of  the  writer's  plays  to 
be  published  in  book  form,  though  the  first  of  the 
three  in  order  of  composition.  But  unlike  The  War 
God  and  The  Next  Religion,  which  are  dramatisations 
of  the  spiritual  duels  of  our  time,  The  Melting  Pot 
sprang  directly  from  the  author's  concrete  experience 
as  President  of  the  Emigration  Regulation  Department 
of  the  Jewish  Territorial  Organisation,  which,  founded 
shortly  after  the  great  massacres  of  Jews  in  Russia, 
will  soon  have  fostered  the  settlement  of  ten  thousand 
Russian  Jews  in  the  West  of  the  United  States. 

"  Romantic  claptrap,"  wrote  Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley 
in  the  Times  of  "  this  rhapsodising  over  music  and 
crucibles  and  statues  of  Liberty."  As  if  these  things 
were  not  the  homeliest  of  realities,  and  rhapsodising 
the  natural  response  to  them  of  the  Russo-Jewish  psy- 
chology, incurably  optimist.  The  statue  of  Liberty  is 
a  large  visible  object  at  the  mouth  of  New  York  har- 
bour ;  the  crucible,  if  visible  only  to  the  eye  of  imagina- 
tion like  the  inner  reality  of  the  sunrise  to  the  eye  of 
Blake,  is  none  the  less  a  roaring  and  flaming  actuality. 
These  things  are  as  substantial,  if  not  as  important,  as 
Adeline  Genee  and  Anna  Pavlova,  the  objects  of 
Mr.  Walkley's  own  rhapsodising.  Mr.  Walkley,  never 
having  lacked  Liberty,  nor  cowered  for  days  in  a  cellar 
in  terror  of  a  howling  mob,  can  see  only  theatrical 
exaggeration  in  the  enthusiasm  for  a  land  of  freedom, 
just  as,  never  having  known  or  never  having  had  eyes 
to  see  the  grotesque  and  tragic  creatures  existing  all 
199 


around  us,  he  has  doubted  the  reality  of  some  of 
Balzac's  creations.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  for  such 
a  play  as  The  Melting  Pot  Mr.  Walkley  is  far  from 
being  the  xa/°f'ei?  °f  Aristotle.  The  ideal  spectator 
must  have  known  and  felt  more  of  life  than  Mr. 
Walkley,  who  resembles  too  much  the  library-fed 
man  of  letters  whose  denunciation  by  Walter  Bagehot 
he  himself  quotes  without  suspecting  de  te  fabula 
narratur.  Even  the  critic,  who  has  to  deal  with  a 
refracted  world,  cannot  dispense  with  primary  expe- 
rience of  his  own.  For  "  the  adventures  of  a  soul 
among  masterpieces "  it  is  not  only  necessary  there 
should  be  masterpieces,  there  must  also  be  a  soul. 
Mr.  Walkley,  one  of  the  wittiest  of  contemporary 
writers  and  within  his  urban  range  one  of  the  wisest, 
can  scarcely  be  accused  of  lacking  a  soul,  though 
Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  long-enduring  misconception  of 
him  as  a  brother  in  the  spirit  is  one  of  the  comedies  of 
literature.  But  such  spiritual  vitality  as  Oxford  failed 
to  sterilise  in  him  has  been  largely  torpified  by  his 
profession  of  play-taster,  with  its  divorcement  from 
reality  in  the  raw.  His  cry  of  "  romantic  claptrap  " 
is  merely  the  reaction  of  the  club  armchair  to  the 
"  drums  and  tramplings  "  of  the  street.  It  is  in  fact 
(he  will  welcome  an  allusion  to  Dickens  almost  as 
much  as  one  to  Aristotle)  the  higher  Podsnappery. 
"  Thus  happily  acquainted  with  his  own  merit  and 
importance,  Mr.  Podsnap  settled  that  whatever  he 
put  behind  him  he  put  out  of  existence.  .  .  .  The 
world  got  up  at  eight,  shaved  close  at  a  quarter  past, 
breakfasted  at  nine,  went  to  the  City  at  ten,  came 
home  a*~  half-past  five,  and  dined  at  seven." 
200 


Mr.  Roosevelt,  with  his  multifarious  American 
experience  as  soldier  and  cowboy,  hunter  and  historian, 
police-captain  and  President,  comes  far  nearer  the  ideal 
spectator,  for  this  play  at  least,  than  Mr.  Walkley.  Yet 
his  enthusiasm  for  it  has  been  dismissed  by  our  critic 
as  "  stupendous  naivete"  Mr.  Roosevelt  apparently 
falls  under  that  class  of  "  people  who  knowing  no 
rules,  are  at  the  mercy  of  their  undisciplined  taste," 
which  Mr.  Walkley  excludes  altogether  from  his  classi- 
fication of  critics,  in  despite  of  Dr.  Johnson's  opinion 
that  "  natural  judges  "  are  only  second  to  "  those  who 
know  but  are  above  the  rules."  It  is  comforting, 
therefore,  to  find  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas,  the  famous 
American  playwright,  who  is  familiar  with  the  rules 
to  the  point  of  contempt,  chivalrously  associating 
himself,  in  defence  of  a  British  rival,  with  Mr.  Roose- 
velt's "  stupendous  naivete" 

"  Mr.  ZangwilPs  '  rhapsodising '  over  music  and 
crucibles  and  statues  of  Liberty  is,"  says  Mr.  Thomas, 
"  a  very  effective  use  of  a  most  potent  symbolism, 
and  I  have  never  seen  men  and  women  more  sincerely 
stirred  than  the  audience  at  The  Melting  Pot.  The 
impulses  awakened  by  the  Zangwill  play  were  those 
of  wide  human  sympathy,  charity,  and  compassion ; 
and,  for  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  retire  from  the 
theatre  and  retire  from  all  direct  or  indirect  associa- 
tion with  journalism  than  write  down  the  employment 
of  these  factors  by  Mr.  Zangwill  as  mere  claptrap." 

"  As  a  work  of  art  for  art's  sake,"  also  wrote  Mr. 
William  Archer,  "  the  play  simply  does  not  exist." 
He  added:  "but  Mr.  Zangwill  would  not  dream  of 
appealing  to  such  a  standard."  Mr.  Archer  had  the 

201 


misfortune  to  see  the  play  in  New  York  side  by  side 
with  his  more  cynical  confrere,  and  thus  his  very 
praise  has  an  air  of  apologia  to  Mr.  Walkley  and  the 
great  doctrine  of  "  art  for  art's  sake."  It  would 
almost  seem  as  if  he  even  takes  a  "  work  of  art  "  and 
a  "  work  of  art  for  art's  sake  "  as  synonymous.  Nothing, 
in  fact,  could  be  more  inartistic.  "  Art  for  art's  sake  " 
is  one  species  of  art,  whose  right  to  existence  the 
author  has  amply  recognised  in  other  works.  (The 
King  of  Schnorrers  was  even  read  aloud  by  Oscar  Wilde 
to  a  duchess.)  But  he  roundly  denies  that  art  is  any 
the  less  artistic  for  being  inspired  by  life,  and  seeking 
in  its  turn  to  inspire  life.  Such  a  contention  is  tainted 
by  the  very  Philistinism  it  would  repudiate,  since  it 
seeks  a  negative  test  of  art  in  something  outside  art — 
to  wit,  purpose,  whose  presence  is  surely  as  irrelevant 
to  art  as  its  absence.  The  only  test  of  art  is  artistic 
quality,  and  this  quality  occurs  perhaps  more  frequently 
than  it  is  achieved,  as  in  the  words  of  the  Hebrew 
prophets,  or  the  vision  of  a  slum  at  night,  the  former 
consciously  aiming  at  something  quite  different,  the 
latter  achieving  its  beauty  in  utter  unconsciousness. 

II 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  official  table  of  immigration 
that  the  Russian  Jew  is  only  one  and  not  even  the 
largest  of  the  fifty  elements  that,  to  the  tune  of  nearly 
a  million  and  a  half  a  year,  are  being  fused  in  the 
greatest  "  Melting  Pot  "  the  world  has  ever  known  ; 
but  if  he  has  been  selected  as  the  typical  immigrant, 
it  is  because  he  alone  of  all  the  fifty  has  no  home- 
202 


land.  Some  few  other  races,  such  as  the  Armenians, 
are  almost  equally  devoid  of  political  power,  and,  in 
consequence,  equally  obnoxious  to  massacre ;  but 
except  the  gipsy,  whose  essence  is  to  be  homeless,  there 
is  no  other  race — black,  white,  red,  or  yellow — that  has 
not  remained  at  least  a  majority  of  the  population 
in  some  area  of  its  own.  There  is  none,  therefore, 
more  in  need  of  a  land  of  liberty,  none  to  whose  future 
it  is  more  vital  that  America  should  preserve  that 
spirit  of  William  Penn  which  President  Wilson  has 
so  nobly  characterised.  And  there  is  assuredly  none 
which  has  more  valuable  elements  to  contribute  to 
the  ethnic  and  psychical  amalgam  of  the  people  of 
to-morrow. 

The  process  of  American  amalgamation  is  not 
assimilation  or  simple  surrender  to  the  dominant  type, 
as  is  popularly  supposed,  but  an  all-round  give-and- 
take  by  which  the  final  type  may  be  enriched  or 
impoverished.  Thus  the  intelligent  reader  will  have 
remarked_how  the  somewhat  anti-Semitic  Irish  servant 
of  the  first  act  talks  Yiddish  herself  in  the  fourth. 
Even  as  to  the  ultimate  language  of  the  United  States, 
it  is  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  American,  though 
fortunately  protected  by  English  literature,  will  not 
bear  traces  of  the  fifty  languages  now.  being  spoken 
side  by  side  with  it,  and  of  which  this  play  alone 
presents  scraps  in  German,  French,  Russian,  Yiddish, 
Irish,  Hebrew,  and  Italian. 

That  in  the  crucible  of  love,  or  even  co-citizenship, 
the  most  violent  antitheses  of  the  past  may  be  fused 
into  a  higher  unity  is  a  truth  of  both  ethics  and 
observation,  and  it  was  in  order  to  present  historic 
203 


enmities  at  their  extremes  that  the  persecuted  Jew 
of  Russia  and  the  persecuting  Russian  race  have  been 
taken  for  protagonists — "  the  fell  incensed  points  of 
mighty  opposites." 

The  Jewish  immigrant  is,  moreover,  the  toughest 
of  all  the  white  elements  that  have  been  poured  into 
the  American  crucible,  the  race  having,  by  its  unique 
experience  of  several  thousand  years  of  exposure  to 
alien  majorities,  developed  a  salamandrine  power  of 
survival.  And  this  asbestoid  fibre  is  made  even  more 
fireproof  by  the  anti-Semitism  of  American  uncivilisa- 
tion.  Nevertheless,  to  suppose  that  America  will 
remain  permanently  afflicted  by  all  the  old  European 
diseases  would  be  to  despair  of  humanity,  not  to 
mention  super-humanity. 

Ill 

Even  the  negrophobia  is  not  likely  to  remain  eternally 
at  its  present  barbarous  pitch.  Mr.  William  Archer, 
who  has  won  a  new  fame  as  student  of  that  black 
problem,  which  is  America's  nemesis  for  her  ancient 
slave-raiding,  and  who  favours  the  creation  of  a  Black 
State  as  one  of  the  United  States,  observes :  "  It  is 
noteworthy  that  neither  David  Quixano  nor  anyone 
else  in  the  play  makes  the  slightest  reference  to  that 
inconvenient  element  in  the  crucible  of  God — the 
negro."  This  is  an  oversight  of  Mr.  Archer's,  for 
Baron  Revendal  defends  the  Jew-baiting  of  Russia  by 
asking  of  an  American :  "  Don't  you  lynch  and  roast 
your  niggers  ?  "  And  David  Quixano  expressly  throws 
both  "  black  and  yellow "  into  the  crucible.  No 
204 


doubt  there  is  an  instinctive  antipathy  which  tends 
to  keep  the  white  man  free  from  black  blood,  though 
this  antipathy  having  been  overcome  by  a  large 
minority  in  all  the  many  periods  and  all  the  many 
countries  of  their  contiguity,  it  is  equally  certain  that 
there  are  at  work  forces  of  attraction  as  well  as  of 
repulsion,  and  that  even  upon  the  negro  the  "  Melting 
Pot  "  of  America  will  not  fail  to  act  in  a  measure  as 
it  has  acted  on  the  Red  Indian,  who  has  found  it 
almost  as  facile  to  mate  with  his  white  neighbours  as 
with  his  black.  Indeed,  it  is  as  much  social  prejudice 
as  racial  antipathy  that  to-day  divides  black  and  white 
in  the  New  World ;  and  Sir  Sydney  Olivier  has  recorded 
that  in  Jamaica  the  white  is  far  more  on  his  guard  and 
his  dignity  against  the  half-white  than  against  the 
all-black,  while  in  Guiana,  according  to  Sir  Harry 
Johnston  in  his  great  work  "  The  Negro  in  the  New 
World,"  it  is  the  half-white  that,  in  his  turn,  despises 
the  black  and  succeeds  in  marrying  still  further  white- 
wards.  It  might  have  been  thought  that  the  dark- 
white  races  on  the  northern  shore  of  the  Mediterranean 
— the  Spaniards,  Sicilians,  &c. — who  have  already  been 
crossed  with  the  sons  of  Ham  from  its  southern  shore, 
would,  among  the  American  immigrants,  be  the  natural 
links  towards  the  fusion  of  white  and  black,  but  a 
similar  instinct  of  pride  and  peril  seems  to  hold  them 
back.  But  whether  the  antipathy  in  America  be  a 
race  instinct  or  a  social  prejudice,  the  accusations 
against  the  black  are  largely  panic-born  myths,  for 
the  alleged  repulsive  smell  of  the  negro  is  consistent 
with  being  shaved  by  him,  and  the  immorality  of  the 
negress  is  consistent  with  her  control  of  the  nurseries 
205 


of  the  South.  The  devil  is  not  so  black  nor  the  black 
so  devilish  as  he  is  painted.  This  is  not  to  deny  that 
the  prognathous  face  is  an  ugly  and  undesirable  type 
of  countenance  or  that  it  connotes  a  lower  average  of 
intellect  and  ethics,  or  that  white  and  black  are  as 
yet  too  far  apart  for  profitable  fusion.  A/Ielanophobia, 
or  fear  of  the  black,  may  be  pragmatically  as  valuable  a 
racial  defence  for  the  white  as  the  counter-instinct  of 
philoleucosis,  or  love  of  the  white,  is  a  force  of  racial 
uplifting  for  the  black.  But  neither  colour  has  suc- 
ceeded in  monopolising  all  the  virtues  and  graces  in  its 
specific  evolution  from  the  common  ancestral  ape,  and 
a  superficial  acquaintance  with  the  work  of  Dr.  Arthur 
Keith  teaches  that  if  the  black  man  is  nearer  the  ape 
in  some  ways  (having  even  the  remains  of  throat - 
pouches),  the  white  man  is  nearer  in  other  ways  (as 
in  his  greater  hairiness). 

And  besides  being,  as  Sir  Sydney  Olivier  says,  "  a 
matrix  of  emotional  and  spiritual  energies  that  have 
yet  to  find  their  human  expression,"  the  African 
negro  has  obviously  already  not  a  few  valuable  ethnic 
elements — joy  of  life,  love  of  colour,  keen  senses, 
beautiful  voice,  and  ear  for  music — contributions  that 
might  somewhat  compensate  for  the  dragging- down 
of  the  white  and,  in  small  doses  at  least,  might  one 
day  prove  a  tonic  to  an  anaemic  and  art-less  America. 
A  musician  like  Coleridge-Taylor  is  no  despicable 
product  of  the  "  Melting  Pot,"  while  the  negroes  of 
genius  whom  the  writer  has  been  privileged  to  know — 
men  like  Henry  O.  Tanner,  the  painter,  and  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar,  the  poet — show  the  potentialities 
of  the  race  even  without  white  admixture ;  and  a? 
206 


men  of  this  stamp  are  capable  of  attracting  cultured 
white  wives,  the  fusing  process,  beginning  at  the  top 
with  types  like  these,  should  be  far  less  unwelcome 
than  that  which  starts  with  the  dregs  of  both  races. 
But  the  negroid  hair  and  complexion  being,  in  Men- 
delian  language,  "  dominant,"  these  black  traits  are 
not  easy  to  eliminate  from  the  hybrid  posterity  ;  and 
in  view  of  all  the  unpleasantness,  both  immediate  and 
contingent,  that  attends  the  blending  of  colours,  only 
heroic  souls  on  either  side  should  dare  the  adventure 
of  intermarriage.  Blacks  of  this  temper,  however, 
would  serve  their  race  better  by  making  Liberia  a 
success  or  building  up  an  American  negro  State,  as 
Mr.  William  Archer  recommends,  or  at  least  asserting 
their  rights  as  American  citizens  in  that  sub-tropical 
South  which  without  their  labour  could  never  have 
been  opened  up.  Meantime,  however  scrupulously 
and  justifiably  America  avoids  physical  intermarriage 
with  the  negro,  the  comic  spirit  cannot  fail  to  note  the 
spiritual  miscegenation  which,  while  clothing,  com- 
mercialising, and  Christianising  the  ex-African,  has 
given  "  rag-time  "  and  the  sex-dances  that  go  to  it, 
first  to  white  America  and  thence  to  the  whole  white 
world. 

The  action  of  the  crucible  is  thus  not  exclusively 
physical — a  consideration  particularly  important  as 
regards  the  Jew.  The  Jew  may  be  Americanised  and 
the  American  Judaised  without  any  gamic  inter- 
action. 


IV 

Among  the  Jews  The  Melting  Pot,  though  it  has 
in  some  instances  served  to  interpret  to  each  other 
the  old  generation  and  the  new,  has  more  frequently 
been  misunderstood  by  both.  While  a  distinguished 
Christian  clergyman  wrote  that  it  was  "  calculated  to 
do  for  the  Jewish  race  what  *  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  ' 
did  for  the  coloured  man,"  the  Jewish  pulpits  of 
America  have  resounded  with  denunciation  of  its 
supposed  solution  of  the  Jewish  problem  by  dissolu- 
tion. As  if  even  a  play  with  a  purpose  could  do 
more  than  suggest  and  interpret  !  It  is  true  that  its 
leading  figure,  David  Quixano,  advocates  absorption 
in  America,  but  even  he  is  speaking  solely  of  the 
American  Jews  and  asks  his  uncle  why,  if  he  objects 
to  the  dissolving  process,  he  did  not  work  for  a  separate 
Jewish  land.  He  is  not  offering  a  panacea  for  the 
Jewish  problem,  universally  applicable.  But  he  urges 
that  the  conditions  offered  to  the  Jew  in  America  are 
without  parallel  throughout  the  world. 

And,  in  sooth,  the  Jew  is  here  citizen  of  a  republic 
without  a  State  religion — a  republic  resting,  moreover, 
on  the  same  simple  principles  of  justice  and  equal 
rights  as  the  Mosaic  Commonwealth  from  which  the 
Puritan  Fathers  drew  their  inspiration.  In  America, 
therefore,  the  Jew,  by  a  roundabout  journey  from 
Zion,  has  come  into  his  own  again.  It  is  by  no  mere 
accident  that  when  an  inscription  was  needed  for 
the  colossal  statue  of  Liberty  in  New  York  Harbour, 
that  "  Mother  of  Exiles "  whose  torch  lights  the 
entrance  to  the  New  Jerusalem,  the  best  expression 
208 


of  the  spirit  of  Americanism  was  found  in  the  sonnet  of 
the  Jewess,  Emma  Lazarus : 

Give  me  your  tired,  your  poor, 
Tour  huddled  masses  yearning  to  breathe  free, 
The  wretched  refuse  of  your  teeming  shore. 
Send  these,  the  homeless,  tempest-tost  to  me, 
I  lift  my  lamp  beside  the  golden  door. 

And  if,  alas  !  passing  through  the  golden  door,  the 
Jew  finds  his  New  Jerusalem  as  much  a  caricature  by 
the  crumbling  of  its  early  ideals  as  the  old  became  by 
the  fading  of  the  visions  of  Isaiah  and  Amos,  he  may 
find  his  mission  in  fighting  for  the  preservation  of 
the  original  Hebraic  pattern.  In  this  fight  he  will 
not  be  alone,  and  intermarriage  with  his  fellow- 
crusaders  in  the  new  Land  of  Promise  will  naturally 
follow  wherever,  as  with  David  Quixano  and  Vera 
Revendal,  no  theological  differences  divide.  There  will 
be  neither  Jew  nor  Greek.  Intermarriage,  wherever 
there  is  social  intimacy,  will  follow,  even  when  the 
parties  stand  in  opposite  religious  camps ;  but 
this  is  less  advisable  as  leading  to  a  house  divided 
against  itself  and  to  dissension  in  the  upbringing  of 
the  children.  It  is  only  when  a  common  outlook  has 
been  reached,  transcending  the  old  doctrinal  differ- 
ences, that  intermarriage  is  denuded  of  those  latent 
discords  which  the  instinct  of  mankind  divines,  and 
which  keep  even  Catholic  and  Protestant  wisely  apart. 
These  discords,  together  with  the  prevalent  anti- 
Semitism  and  his  own  ingrained  persistence,  tend  to 
preserve  the  Jew  even  in  the  "  Melting  Pot,"  so  that 
his  dissolution  must  be  necessarily  slower  than  that  of 
200  o 


the  similar  aggregations  of  Germans,  Italians,  or  Poles. 
But  the  process  for  all  is  the  same,  however  tempered 
by  specific  factors.  Beginning  as  broken-ofi  bits  of 
Germany,  Italy,  or  Poland,  with  newspapers  and 
theatres  in  German,  Italian,  or  Polish,  these  colonies 
gradually  become  Americanised,  their  vernaculars, 
even  when  jealously  cherished,  become  a  mere  medium 
for  American  conceptions  of  life;  while  in  the  third 
generation  the  child  is  ashamed  both  of  its  parents 
and  their  lingo,  the  newspapers  dwindle  in  circulation, 
the  theatres  languish.  The  reality  of  this  process 
has  been  denied  by  no  less  distinguished  an  American 
than  Dr.  Charles  Eliot,  ex-President  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity, whose  prophecy  of  Jewish  solidarity  in  America 
and  of  the  contribution  of  Judaism  to  the  world's 
future  is  more  optimistic  than  my  own.  Dr.  Eliot 
points  to  the  still  unmelted  heaps  of  racial  matter, 
without  suspecting — although  he  is  a  chemist — that 
their  semblance  of  solidity  is  only  kept  up  by  the 
constant  immigration  of  similar  atoms  to  the  base  to 
replace  those  liquefied  at  the  apex.  Once  America 
slams  her  doors,  the  crucible  will  roar  like  a  closed 
furnace. 

Heaven  forbid,  however,  that  the  doors  shall  be 
slammed  for  centuries  yet.  The  notion  that  the  few 
millions  of  people  in  America  have  a  moral  right  to 
exclude  others  is  monstrous.  Exclusiveness  may  have 
some  justification  in  countries,  especially  when  old 
and  well-populated ;  but  for  continents  like  the 
United  States — or  for  the  matter  of  that  Canada  and 
Australia — to  mistake  themselves  for  mere  countries  is 
an  intolerable  injustice  to  the  rest  of  the  human  race. 

210 


The  exclusion  of  criminals  even  is  as  impossible  in 
practice  as  the  exclusion  of  the  sick  and  ailing  is 
unchristian.  Infinitely  more  important  were  it  to 
keep  the  gates  of  birth  free  from  undesirables.  As 
for  the  exclusion  of  the  able-bodied,  whether  illiterate 
or  literate,  that  is  sheer  economic  madness  in  so  empty 
a  continent,  especially  with  the  Panama  Canal  tq  divert 
them  to  the  least  developed  States.  Fortunately,  any 
serious  restriction  will  avenge  itself  not  only  by  the 
stagnation  of  many  of  the  States,  but  by  the  paralysis 
of  the  great  liners  which  depend  on  steerage  passengers, 
without  whom  freights  and  fares  will  rise  and  saloon 
passengers  be  docked  of  their  sailing  facilities.  Mean- 
time the  inquisition  at  Ellis  Island  has  to  its  account 
cruelties  no  less  atrocious  than  the  ancient  Spanish — 
cruelties  that  only  flash  into  momentary  prominence 
when  some  luxurious  music-hall  lady  of  dubious 
morals  has  a  taste  of  the  barbarities  meted  out  daily 
to  blameless  and  hard-working  refugees  from  oppression 
or  hunger,  who,  having  staked  their  all  on  the  great 
adventure,  find  themselves  hustled  back,  penniless  and 
heartbroken,  to  the  Old  World. 


Whether  any  country  will  ever  again  be  based 
like  those  of  the  Old  World  upon  a  unity  of  race 
or  religion  is  a  matter  of  doubt.  New  England,  of 
course,  like  Pennsylvania  and  Maryland,  owes  its  incep- 
tion to  religion,  but  the  original  impulse  has  long 
been  submerged  by  purely  economic  pressures.  And 
the  same  motley  immigration  from  the  Old  World 

211 


is  building  up  the  bulk  of  the  coming  countries.  At 
most,  the  dominant  language  gives  a  semblance  of 
unity  and  serves  to  attract  a  considerable  stream  of 
immigrants  who  speak  it,  as  of  Portuguese  to  Brazil, 
Spaniards  to  the  Argentine.  But  the  chief  magnet 
remains  economic,  for  Brazil  draws  six  times  as  many 
Italians  as  Portuguese,  and  the  Argentine  two  and  a 
half  times  as  many  Italians  as  Spanish.  It  may  be 
urged,  of  course,  that  the  Italian  gravitation  to  these 
countries  is  still  a  matter  of  race,  and  that,  in  the 
absence  of  an  El  Dorado  of  his  own,  the  Italian  is 
attracted  towards  States  that  are  at  least  Latin.  But 
though  Brazil  and  the  Argentine  be  predominantly 
Latin,  the  minority  of  Germans,  Austrians,  and  Swiss 
is  by  no  means  insignificant.  The  great  modern 
steamship,  in  fact — supplemented  by  its  wandering 
and  seductive  agent — is  playing  the  part  in  the  world 
formerly  played  by  invasions  and  crusades,  while  the 
"  economic  "  immigrant  is  more  and  more  replacing 
the  refugee,  just  as  the  purely  commercial  company 
working  under  native  law  is  replacing  the  Chartered 
Company  which  was  a  law  to  itself.  How  small  a 
part  in  the  modern  movement  is  played  by  patriotism 
proper  may  be  seen  from  the  avidity  with  which  the 
farmers  of  the  United  States  cross  the  borders  to 
Canada  to  obtain  the  large  free  holdings  which  enable 
them  to  sell  off  their  American  properties.  How  little 
the  proudest  tradition  counts  against  the  environment 
is  shown  in  the  shame  felt  by  Argentine-born  children 
for  the  English  spoken  by  their  British  parents. 

The    difference   in   the  method  of   importing  the 
ingredient^  makes  thus  no  difference  to  the  action  of 


the  crucible.  Though  the  peoples  now  in  process 
of  formation  in  the  New  World  are  being  recruited 
by  mainly  economic  forces,  it  may  be  predicted  they 
will  ultimately  harden  into  homogeneity  of  race,  if 
not  even  of  belief.  For  internationalism  in  religion 
seems  to  be  again  receding  in  favour  of  national 
religions  (if,  indeed,  these  were  ever  more  than 
superficially  superseded),  at  any  rate  in  favour  of 
nationalism  raised  into  religion. 

If  racial  homogeneity  has  not  yet  been  evolved 
completely  even  in  England — and,  of  course,  the 
tendency  can  never  be  more  than  asymptotic — it  is 
because  cheap  and  easy  transport  and  communication, 
with  freedom  of  economic  movement,  have  been  late 
developments  and  are  still  far  from  perfect.  Hence, 
there  has  never  been  a  thorough  shake-up  and  admix- 
ture of  elements,  so  that  certain  counties  and  corners 
have  retained  types  and  breeds  peculiar  to  them. 
But  with  the  ever-growing  interconnection  of  all 
parts  of  the  country,  and  with  the  multiplication  of 
labour  bureaux,  these  breeds  and  types  will  be — alas, 
for  local  colour  ! — increasingly  absorbed  in  the  general 
mass.  For  fusion  and  unification  are  part  of  the 
historic  life-process.  "  Normans  and  Saxons  and 
Danes  "  are  we  here  in  England,  yes  and  Huguenots 
and  Flemings  and  Gascons  and  Angevins  and  Jews  and 
many  other  things. 

In  fact,  according  to  Sir  Harry  Johnston,  there  is 
hardly  an  ethnic  element  that  has  not  entered  into 
the  Englishman,  including  even  the  missing  link,  as 
the  Piltdown  skull  would  seem  to  testify.  The  earlier 
discovery  at  Galley  Hill  showed  Britannia  rising  from 
213 


the  apes  with  an  extinct  Tasmanian  type,  not  unlike 
the  surviving  aboriginal  Australian.  Then  the  west  of 
Britain  was  invaded  by  a  negroid  type  from  France 
followed  by  an  Eskimo  type  of  which  traces  are  still  tc 
be  seen  in  the  West  of  Ireland  and  parts  of  Scotland. 
Next  came  the  true  .Mediterranean  white  man,  the 
Iberian,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  a  white  skin  ; 
and  then  the  round-headed  people  of  the  Bronze 
Age,  probably  Asiatic.  And  then  the  Gael,  the  long- 
headed, fair-haired  Aryan,  who  ruled  by  iron  and 
whose  Keltic  vocabulary  was  tinged  with  Iberian,  and 
who  was  followed  by  the  Brython  or  Belgian.  And,  at 
some  unknown  date,  we  have  to  allow  for  the  invasion 
of  North  Britain  by  another  Germanic  type,  the 
Caledonian,  which  would  seem  to  have  been  a  Norse 
stock,  foreshadowing  the  later  Norman  Conquest. 
And,  as  if  this  mish-mash  was  not  confusion  enough, 
came  to  make  it  worse  confounded  the  Roman 
conquerors,  trailing  like  a  mantle  of  many  colours 
the  subject-races  of  their  far-flung  Empire. 

Is  it  wonderful  if  the  crucible,  capable  of  fusing 
such  a  motley  of  types  into  "  the  true-born  Briton," 
should  be  melting  up  its  Jews  like  old  silver  ?  The 
comparison  belongs  to  Mr.  Walkley,  who  was  more 
moved  by  the  beauty  of  the  old  and  the  pathos  of  its 
passing  than  by  the  resplendence  of  the  new,  and  who 
seemed  to  forget  that  it  is  for  the  dramatist  to  register 
both  impartially — their  conflict  constituting  another 
of  those  spiritual  duels  which  are  peculiarly  his  affair. 
Jews  are,  unlike  negroes,  a  "  recessive "  type,  whose 
physical  traits  tend  to  disappear  in  the  blended  off- 
spring. There  does  not  exist  in  England  to-day  a 
214 


single  representative  of  the  Jewish  families  whom 
Cromwell  admitted,  though  their  lineage  may  be 
traced  in  not  a  few  noble  families.  Thus  every  country 
has  been  and  is  a  "  Melting  Pot."  But  America, 
exhibiting  the  normal  fusing  process  magnified  many 
thousand  diameters  and  diversified  beyond  all  historic 
experience,  and  fed  not  by  successive  waves  of  immigra- 
tion but  by  a  hodge-podge  of  simultaneous  hordes, 
is,  in  Bacon's  phrase,  an  "  ostensive  instance  "  of 
a  universal  phenomenon.  America  is  the  "  Melting 
Pot." 

Her  people  has  already  begun  to  take  on  such  a 
complexion  of  its  own,  it  is  already  so  emphatically 
tending  to  a  new  race,  crossed  with  every  European 
type,  that  the  British  illusion  of  a  cousinly  Anglo- 
Saxon  people  with  whom  war  is  unthinkable  is  sheer 
wilful  blindness.  Even  to-day,  while  the  mixture  is 
still  largely  mechanical  not  chemical,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
element  is  only  preponderant ;  it  is  very  far  from  being 
the  sum  total. 

VI 

While  our  sluggish  and  sensual  English  stage  has 
resisted  and  even  burked  the  writer's  attempt  to 
express  in  terms  of  the  theatre  our  European  problems 
of  war  and  religion,  and  to  interpret  through  art  the 
"  years  of  the  modern,  years  of  the  unperformed,"  it 
remains  to  be  acknowledged  with  gratitude  that  this 
play,  designed  to  bring  home  to  America  both  its 
comparative  rawness  and  emptiness  *nd  its  true 
significance  and  potentiality  for  history  and  civilisa- 
tion, has  been  universally  acclaimed  by  Americans 
"5 


as  a  revelation  of  Americanism,  despite  that  it  contains 
only  one  native-born  American  character,  and  that  a 
bad  one.  Played  throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  States  since  its  original  production  in  1908, 
given,  moreover,  in  Universities  and  Women's  Colleges, 
passing  through  edition  after  edition  in  book  form, 
cited  by  preachers  and  journalists,  politicians  and 
Presidential  candidates,  even  calling  into  existence  a 
"  Melting  Pot "  Club  in  Boston,  it  has  had  the  happy 
fortune  to  contribute  its  title  to  current  thought, 
and,  in  the  testimony  of  Jane  Addams,  to  "  perform 
a  great  service  to  America  by  reminding  us  of  the 
high  hopes  of  the  founders  of  the  Republic." 

I.  Z. 
January  1914. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


'T'HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of 
books  by  the  same  author  or  on  kindred  subjects. 


"Of  the  original  plays  presented  in  London  in  191  1  the  finest 
was  Mr.  Israel  ZangwilTs  '  The  War  God.'  "  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

The  War  God  :   A  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts 

BY  ISRAEL  ZANGWILL 

Decorated  Cloth,  i2tno,  $s.2j 

SOME  EXPERT  OPINIONS 

"  A  very  great  tragedy,  full  of  genius.  Its  language  moves  in  blank  verse  as 
the  appropriate  ritual  of  this  momentous  theme."  —  Mrs.  Alice  Meynell. 

"  Mr.  Zangwill  is  a  man  of  genius.  He  has  put  on  the  stage  a  play  which 
grapples  with  reality  in  its  grimmest  form.  .  .  .  The  play  is  big  with  the  fate  of 
nations.  .  .  .  No  play  of  our  time  cuts  deeper  into  the  flesh  of  reality."  —  Mr. 
James  Douglas. 

"  I  admire  the  courage  which  led  Mr.  Zangwill  to  essay  this  task  of  high  em- 
prise. ...  It  is  a  play  which  the  large  audience  followed  with  intense  interest 
and  discussed  with  great  earnestness  between  the  acts."  —  William  T.  Stead. 

"  An  extremely  vigorous  piece  of  work,  full  alike  of  thought  and  dramatic 
power."  —  Daily  Telegraph. 

The  Melting  Pot 

BY  ISRAEL  ZANGWILL 

Revised  edition,  cloth,  i2mo,  $f.2j 

In  this  drama  America  is  conceived  as  a  melting  pot  in  which  the  most  diverse 
elements  and  unpromising  material  are  fused  into  true  citizens  of  the  country 
of  the  future.  The  idea  is  worked  out  with  the  mastery  of  technique  and  the 
vigor  of  plot  construction  which  have  distinguished  Mr.  Zangwill's  work  in  the 
past.  It  is  probably  the  most  eloquent  representation  of  Jewish  life  and  ideals 
in  America  that  has  ever  been  set  before  the  people  of  this  country. 

The  Next  Religion  :  A  Play  in  Three  Acts 

Cloth,  i2tno, 


"  He  has  rendered  a  service  to  his  time  by  his  beautiful  play  with  its  wealth  of 
fine  thought  in  fine  language."  —  The  Argonaut. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


By  ISRAEL  ZANGWILL 
Children  of  the  Ghetto 

Cloth,  $f.jo 

"  No  matter  what  he  may  henceforth  write,  this  book  will  stand  alone  as  a 
classic  of  the  Ghetto." —  The  Bookman. 

Ghetto  Comedies 

Cloth,  $1.50 

Each  of  these  tales  is  deliciously  amusing.  There  is  a  quiet  laugh  in  every 
page — the  keenest  wit,  the  subtlest  satire,  a  Heine-like  sparkle,  and  never  a 
sting. 

Ghetto  Tragedies 

Cloth,  $1.30 

A  new  edition  of  the  book  first  issued  as  "  They  that  Walk  in  Darkness." 
"  Ghetto  Tragedies,"  says  the  Boston  Herald,  "  torn  from  life  and  presented  in 
their  grim  compelling  force  as  no  one  else  could  write  them  .  .  .  revealing 
dramatic  force,  intense  realism,  infinite  pity,  and  certain  knowledge." 

The  King  of  Schnorrers 

Cloth,  fa.jo 

"  Its  audacity  is  something  unequalled,  and  it  is  enhanced  by  the  pithy  and 
original  style  in  which  the  author  writes."  —  Daily  News. 

The  Celibates*  Club 

Cloth,  $1.30 

"  The-  Bachelors'  Club  "  and  the  "  Old  Maids'  Club  "  in  one  volume.  "  He 
has  ideas,"  says  the  New  York  Sun,  "  and  the  art  of  sketching  delicious  situa- 
tions in  an  original  and  charming  way." 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
The  Grey  Wig,  and  Other  Stories 

Cloth,  $1.50 

Italian  Fantasies 

Col.,  ill.,  jzmo,  $2.00 

The  Serio-Comic  Governess 

Paper,  I2mo,  $  .jo 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


Rabindranath  Tagore's  New  Drama 

The  King  of  the  Dark  Chamber 

BY  RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 

Nobel  Prizeman  in  Literature  1913,  Author  of  "  Gitanjali,"  "  The  Gar- 
dener," "  The  Crescent  Moon,"  "  Sadhana,"  "  Chitra,"  "  The  Post 
Office,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mo 


"The  real  poetical  imagination  of  it  is 
unchangeable;  the  allegory,  subtle  and 
profound,  and  yet  simple,  is  cast  into  the 
form  of  a  dramatic  narrative,  which  moves 
with  unconventional  freedom  to  a  finely 
impressive  climax;  and  the  reader,  who 
began  in  idle  curiosity,  finds  his  intelli- 
gence more  and  more  engaged  until,  when 
he  turns  the  last  page,  he  has  the  feeling 
of  one  who  has  been  moving  in  worlds  not 
realized,  and  communing  with  great  if  mys- 
terious presences."  —  The  London  Globe. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  POEMS  AND  PLAYS 


Romance 

By  EDWARD  SHELDON,  Author  of  "The  Nigger,"  etc. 
Decorated  cloth,  12  mo. 

Mr.  Sheldon  can  be  relied  upon  to  provide  drama  that  is  not  only 
good  from  a  technical  standpoint,  but  unusual  in  subject  matter. 
The  Nigger,  which  proved  to  be  one  of  the  sensations  of  the  New 
Theatre's  short  career,  is  now  followed  by  Romance,  a  play  more 
admirable,  perhaps,  in  its  construction,  and  of  universal  appeal. 
As  a  book  the  story  seems  to  have  lost  none  of  its  brilliance ;  in 
fact  the  sharpness  of  its  character  delineation,  the  intensity 
and  reality  of  its  plot  and  the  lyrical  beauty  of  some  of  its  pass- 
ages are,  if  possible  more  apparent  on  the  printed  page  than 
in  the  theatre.  There  is  little  doubt  but  that  the  tremendous 
success  which  the  drama  made  when  footlighted  is  to  be  dupli- 
cated upon  its  appearance  in  this  form. 


Poems 

By  HARRIET  MONROE.     Cloth,  i2mo.     $1.25 

In  this  book  is  brought  together  some  of  Miss  Monroe's  best  work. 
As  the  editor  of  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  wherein  occasion- 
ally compositions  of  her  own  have  appeared,  and  as  a  contributor 
to  the  better  magazines,  Miss  Monroe  has  endeared  herself 
to  a  large  audience  of  discriminating  people.  A  distinguishing 
feature  of  the  collection  is  that  it  is  notably  representative  of 
current  ideas  and  sentiments,  and  pleasingly  varied  in  theme. 
The  author's  subjects  are  chosen  from  the  Panama  Canal,  the 
Titanic  disaster,  the  turbine,  the  telephone,  State  Street,  Chica- 
go, and  other  modern  phases  or  factors  of  life.  There  is  also  a 
group  of  love  poems. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue        New  York 


NEW  POEMS  AND  PLAYS 


Poems. 

By  JAMES  STEPHENS,  Author  of  "The  Hill  of  Vision," 
"Insurrections,"  etc*     Cloth,  i2mo. 

It  was  as  a  poet  that  Mr.  Stephens  was  first  introduced  to  the  readers 
f  this  country.  Since  the  appearance  of  that  initial  volume — 
Insurrections — there  has  been  published  one  other  collection, 
The  Hill  of  Vision.  Discriminating  readers  of  verse  have  seen 
combined  in  him  a  sense  of  the  humorous,  a  keen  appreciation 
of  rhyme  and  rhythm,  and  above  all  a  most  engaging  originality. 
This  new  volume  is  distinguished  by  variety  in  theme  and  treat- 
ment and  by  those  other  qualities  which  have  enhanced  his 
popularity  with  a  large  and  increasing  audience. 


Van  Zom :  A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts. 

By  EDWIN  A.  ROBINSON.     Cloth,  i2mo.     $1.25 

This  play  makes  delightful  reading  and  introduces  in  the  person  of 
its  author  a  playwright  of  considerable  promise.  Mr.  Robinson 
tells  a  story  that  is  largely  humorous,  one  which  by  a  clever 
arrangement  of  incident  and  skillful  characterization  arouses 
strongly  the  reader's  curiosity  and  keeps  it  unsatisfied  to  the 
end.  The  dialogue  is  bright  and  the  construction  of  the  plot 
shows  the  work  of  one  well  versed  in  the  technique  of  the  drama. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue        New  York 


A  LIST  OF  PLAYS 

Leonid  Andreyev's  Anathema $1.35 

Clyde  Fitch's  The  Climbers .75 

Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes 1.25 

Her  Own  Way .75 

Stubbornness  of  Geraldine .75 

The  Truth 75 

Hermann  Hagedorn's  Makers  of  Madness     .    .    .  i.oo 

Thomas  Hardy's  The  Dynasts.    3  Parts.    Each      .  1.50 

Henry  Arthur  Jones's 

Whitewashing  of  Julia .75 

Saints  and  Sinners .75 

The  Crusaders .75 

Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel 75 

Jack  London's  Scorn  of  Women 1.25 

Theft 1.25 

Hackaye's  Jean  D'Arc 1.25 

Sappho  and  Phaon i  25 

Fenris  the  Wolf 1.25 

Mater 1.25 

Canterbury  Pilgrims 1.25 

The  Scarecrow 1.25 

A  Garland  to  Sylvia 1.25 

John  Masefield's  The  Tragedy  of  Pompey     .    .    .  1.25 

Philip  the  King 1.25 

William  Vaughn  Moody's 

The  Faith  Healer 1.25 

Stephen  Phillip's  Ulysses 1.25 

The  Sin  of  David 1.25 

Nero ,    .    .  1.25 

Pietro  of  Siena 1.00 

Phillips  and  Carr.    Faust 1.25 

Edward  Sheldon's  The  Nigger 1.25 

Romance 1.25 

Katrina  Trask's  In  the  Vanguard 1.25 

Rabindranath  Tagore's  The  Post  Office     ....  1.00 

Chitra 1.00 

The  King  of  the  Dark  Chamber 1.25 

Edwin  A.  Robinson's  Van  Zorn 1.25 

Sarah  King  Wiley's  Coming  of  Philibert    ....  1.25 

Alcestis .75 

Yeats'  Poems  and  Plays,  Vol.  II,  Revised  Edition   .  2.00 

Hour  Glass  (and  others) 1.25 

The  Green  Helmet  and  Other  Poems    ....  1.25 

Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory's  Unicorn  from  the  Stars  1.50 

Israel  Zangwill's  The  Melting  Pot,  New  Edition    .  1.25 

The  War  God 1.25 

The  Next  Religion 1.25 

Plaster  Saints 1.25 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


MAY  0 1  2002 


'OCT 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION 


A    000107364     2 


